All Is Well On The Starship Enterprise, Or Is It?
by volley
Summary: Rostov and Müller are returning to Enterprise after a two-day shore leave. Little do they know that the fun for them has still to begin...
1. Chapter 1

Warning: total silliness ahead!

This multi-chapter story was written on a suggestion from my friend and beta reader Gabi2305, whom I thank for entrusting me with her plot bunny. I hope I took good enough care of it…

Grateful thanks also to my other beta reader, RoaringMice.

§ 1 §

"Wunderbar," a deep voice said.

Crewman Mike Rostov followed the line of sight of his companion's green eyes and found the swaying bottom half of a tall alien female.

"Uh, there's no accounting for taste, I guess," he commented, a bit shocked. As far as he was concerned he couldn't be caught even near a lady with spikes protruding from odd places, but he supposed an Armoury man might see a certain appeal in that defensive body armour.

A hearty laugh interrupted his musings.

"I was referring to the _Karfa_," Ensign Bernhard Müller said, his gaze dancing as he raised one of the oversized glasses that had just been set on their table. "Though it can't compare with Weissbier." A warm smile curved his lips as he added to himself, "_Natürlich_".

Rostov smiled back. "Natürlich," he echoed, earning himself a surprised look and a nod of appreciation for his linguistic efforts. "The _Karfa_! Well, that's a relief. I was afraid you'd ask me to follow some alien females into a cellar."

"A cellar? Why would I do that?" Müller asked in puzzlement, caught in mid action as he was bringing his glass to his lips.

"For no reason, you're right, forget it, sorry, gesundheit, whatever..." Rostov sputtered, causing the frown on the other man's face to deepen. He did his best to ignore it.

Damn, but he had almost shot his mouth off. He eyed his _Karfa_.Maybe it would be safer if he stopped drinking... He'd better not forget that he was the only soul on board who happened to know, having accidentally overheard a conversation, why the Disaster Twins had come back from Risa clad only in their skivvies, that time a few months back. The Commander and Lieutenant had been discussing it rather hotly in the launch-bay; but when they had realised that they weren't alone their differences of opinion had miraculously converged into a univocal order never to spill the beans _or else_. Rostov wasn't prepared to test the substance of that vague yet unambiguous threat.

Müller raised his glass in a toast. "To shore leave?" he proposed jovially.

Rostov hesitated a fleeting moment, but he could feel himself giving in to the inevitable. Ah, after all he had Russian genes, and the stuff probably contained less alcohol than his grandma's cough syrup. Reaching for his third glass of it, he smiled warmly to his friend. "To shore leave," he repeated, clinking.

In a round pit in the middle of the round locale, a group of appropriately-shaped performers were providing a soft but rhythmical background with strange-looking percussion instruments. Rostov watched Müller tap his foot in time with the music. He seemed such a different person from the quiet Second of Lieutenant Malcolm Reed he was used to; so much more genial. A bit of time off, a bit of alcohol and a bit of music had done quite the trick on him. Rostov was glad that the other person on board, aside from the command staff, who had scored most points for working overtime in the past year, had been Müller. Captain Archer had decided to reward them with a couple of days of shore leave, and the armoury man had been fun company. When on board, they each had their own duties to attend and in different departments, so they had never really got to know each other. Now that they had become better acquainted, he hoped to find the time to get together regularly.

The sounds that were floating out of the music pit were pleasant, and the _Karfa_ had made Rostov quite relaxed. He felt a general mellowness that made him inclined to blabber. "So, d'you think that _Diehard_ and _Whiz Kid_ will have survived without us?" he blurted out, his eyebrows doing a quick dance.

Müller sputtered, almost choking on his drink. "_Diehard_?" he roared. "Is that what you engineers call Lieutenant Reed?"

Rostov broke into a grin only Phlox on a stimulant could have outdone.

"Uhm, actually no; just something I made up on the spur of the moment."

"Diehard!" Müller's big frame shook under the force of a hearty laugh. "I think the Lieutenant would actually like that."

Rostov's gaze went wide. "You're not gonna tell him, are you?"

Ignoring his words, Müller continued, "Our Chiefs were probably just fine without us. _Diehard_ probably complained with _Whiz Kid_ about the amount of energy allocated to the Armoury, which probably resulted in the usual lengthy quarrel; but as you know that happens just about every second day." He shook his dark head. "I wouldn't worry about them; they can take care of themselves."

Rostov grinned. "Yeah, you're right," he agreed. "What we ought to be worried about, rather, is what new upgrades to weapons and engines the two may have planned. He leaned forward conspiratorially. "I mean, we've been away for two whole days. They'll likely have half the ship redesigned by the time we get back."

"Ah, well," Müller said, replacing his empty glass on the table, "at least we'll have something interesting to do when we get back."

"Speaking of which…" Rostov checked his watch and let out a sigh. "I think we'd better leave. This planet has been fun, but I don't want to miss our ride back. The pod will be here in about twenty minutes."

"Right." Müller clapped both his hands energetically on his knees and got up. "Back to work, then. Too much rest is no good."

Rolling his eyes, Rostov followed suit. "Two days off the ship are hardly _too much _rest," he commented. "But I admit, after a while it gets boring."

* * *

_Boring_ – Rostov mused half an hour later – was a beautiful adjective. Too bad he didn't know if he would live long enough to ever get to use it again. Biting his lip, he grabbed his seat more firmly.

"Ensign, with all due respect, I doubt Starfleet piloting manuals instruct you to shout 'yahoo' on take-off," he croaked out. "Or to pull the joystick with such, such – erm – _enthusiasm_." In his stomach the Karfa, unaware that it was no dairy product, was trying to curd.

"Would you mind practising your acrobatic flying another time?" Müller – bless the man – asked more explicitly, and quite a bit more firmly.

"Oh, man, you can't NOT like it! Where's your sense of fun?"

Mayweather actually swivelled all the way around to face them, lifting his hands off the controls, a wild grin lighting up his face. Before either of his passengers could say anything, he went on blithely, "Sit back and enjoy the ride. Let me show you what Chef's eggs feel like, when he scrambles them in the morning." With that he turned back to his console, missing the 'don't-you-dare' look Rostov shot him.

"Ah, no, wait a moment," Rostov began; but a happy string of hoots drowned the words.

"Easy, easy, EASY!"

His uncle Piotr had always told him that he could have made a career in singing. But not even that crescendo helped. The pod relentlessly spiralled up in an eddying spin, sending its two passengers groping for something to hold on to.

Müller's deeper and more authoritative voice boomed, "Ensign, put the brake on, NOW!"

Hands permanently embedded in the upholstery of his seat, Rostov gave him a grateful look. At least the Armoury man had the same rank as Mayweather, and could raise his voice with him.

"Aw, you guys are real spoilsports," Mayweather complained. "Just one last barrel roll, alright?"

"Ensign!"

Under Mayweather's expert touch, the pod was already spinning crazily again. Rostov saw Müller turn a shade greener. As they soared into another curl, he spotted Enterprise making a flash across the windshield. It wasn't long before the beep of the comm. was heard.

With a deep sigh of satisfaction – or perhaps resignation – Mayweather finally levelled the shuttle, and opened the channel.

"Yup."

Rostov narrowed his eyes. _Yup? _Maybe the Karfa was more alcoholic than they had thought, and he was having a drunken nightmare.

"For Surak's sake, would you quit twisting the pod like a screw, Ensign?"

Müller blinked, and Rostov grimaced. _The Subcommander? _he mouthed to the Armoury man. Müller shrugged, returning a confused look.

"Yes, Ma'am," Mayweather snapped back in military fashion but with a grin in his voice. "We're ready for the womb," he added.

"Right."

Rostov didn't know if he was more dumbfounded at Mayweather's lack of form or T'Pol's dry reply: he thought he had heard a rolling of the eyes in it.

"I'm deploying the docking arm. Try not to deracinate it, Ensign. I doubt the Commander would appreciate that, right now. He's still pursuing that childish project of his, which is absorbing all of his time and neurons."

And that was when Rostov knew for sure that not all was well on board the US starship Enterprise.

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

§ 2 §

"Please, please: this way."

Phlox's encouraging sweep of the arm was completed by one of his smiles. If the two of them hadn't known that he was herding them towards the decon chamber for the usual precautionary check-up, it could have sounded like an invitation to some kind of party. But that was just what made Rostov nervous. All that glee seemed a bit exaggerated, even for the man.

"Thank you, Doctor," Müller said, eyes boring into the Denobulan as they passed him by. To Rostov, once they were at a safe distance, he muttered, "He looks normal enough."

So Müller was wondering too. Well, could they be blamed? Never mind Travis's throttle-happy ride and T'Pol's unorthodox use of language; if the Doc lost his marbles things could get definitely quite a bit more worrisome.

"I'm relying on you, Bern," Rostov muttered back. "Defending the crew from mad and dangerous aliens is your job."

Belatedly realising he had called someone who outranked him by a nickname, he dared a nervous look to his side, but the chuckle that floated his way reassured him that Müller hadn't minded. The man shot him an amused glance and preceded him into decon. As the door closed behind them, they were enveloped by darkness.

"Great."

There were a few muttered German curses as Müller groped for the comm. link.

"Doctor," he finally paged, "I think you forgot to switch the lights on."

"New protocols," Phlox's happy voice cracked back.

"Rats," Rostov complained, feeling his pupils dilate in response to his brain's request for info. "The blue lights were just about the only thing I liked in decon. Besides, I thought they were necessary for--"

"Courtesy of Commander Tucker, I should add," Phlox chimed on, cutting him off.

"Commander Tucker?" Müller's voice was deep with misgiving. "What new protocols could he ever--"

A loud roar made them jump. They turned towards the beam of light that had appeared in a corner of the room.

_Metro Goldwyn Mayer presents: Seven Brides for Seven Brothers_

In the dim glare that made them look like wraiths, Rostov turned to Müller. "Are you seeing that too?"

_Bless your beautiful hide, wherever you may be…_

"Oh, boy," the Armoury man commented softly, watching the man on the screen sing enthusiastically. "What in heaven's name is that?"

_We ain't met yet but I'm a willin' to bet you're the gal for me._

* * *

"Would you mind givin' a sign of acknowledgement so I know that you are aware of my presence, _Loo-tenant_?"

"Will lifting one eyebrow suffice, _Commander_? I'm afraid the rest of my body can't be spared for such trifle matters at the moment."

Trip shot Malcolm a look of hatred, but the blasted man didn't even see it, because he had actually raised only one of his eyebrows, busy as he was doing whatever it was that he was doing.

"That's vergin' on insubordination," Trip said through his teeth. He started striding towards Malcolm but throttled down mid-way, pulling his jaw back into a less belligerent expression when he noticed the unfriendly looks from Malcolm's subordinates. He must watch out: the Armoury department was a close-knit guild, given rather more to offensive action than fraternisation.

"Good gracious, I apologise, Sir" Malcolm wryly replied, his focus still on some pieces of equipment scattered over his workbench. "Would you want me to lock myself in the brig?"

"Later. First I want ya to tell me where to put this. Otherwise I'll place it wherever I think best."

Grey eyes finally looked up and, quite predictably, narrowed when they alighted on the screen in Trip's arms. A moment later they had lifted threateningly on him, but Trip held them defiantly: nothing that hadn't been expected. The Armoury was the last stronghold, but eventually it too would capitulate; Tucker's honour.

"_That_," Malcolm said in his dangerous voice, "has no place in the Armoury."

"It has too," Trip replied with a cherubic smile. "Capt'n's orders." He watched with satisfaction Malcolm's face go livid.

"I refuse to believe the Captain would sanction this abominable idea of yours," he spat out, straightening up abruptly. He crossed his arms tightly over his chest. "This is the _Armoury_. A place where any wrong move can have fatal results. We need to concentrate, not watch rightly-forgotten celluloid footage of your choice."

Trip doggedly put the screen down on a corner of Malcolm's bench, earning himself a hostile glare.

"The Capt'n has agreed that the Armoury is to be equipped with a movie screen too." He shrugged. "All it took was to suggest that our imminent water-polo match would probably turn out much more... _competitive_ if the crew had a chance to familiarise themselves with the game." He gave Mal another smile, letting it fall abruptly off his face as he added, deadpan, "Sorry, Loo-tenant."

Malcolm pursed his lips, probably to hold in a string of foul words. "Fine," he said, in the slightly higher-pitched tone of fury cloaked in politeness. "Just don't complain if we end up _distractedly_ pushing the wrong button and causing an interstellar incident."

"Where shall I put it?" Trip asked innocently.

Malcolm matched his look of innocence with one of his own. "How about inside one of the torpedo launchers?

* * *

"Doctor?" Müller called, opening the comm. link to sickbay.

_Bless your beautiful hide, you're just as good as lost_

_I don't know your name but I'm a-stakin' my claim lest your eyes is crossed_

"Doctor Phlox?" he called again with just a hint of irritation and concern when no reply came.

"I believe _he_'s 'as good as lost'," Rostov commented bleakly. "And my eyes will definitely become 'crossed', if I watch any more of _that_."

Suddenly the access hatch was opened and Hoshi's gentle face appeared behind the glass.

"Ensign! Am I glad to see you," Müller said in relief, taking a quick stride towards her.

"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a, mes pauvres chéris?"

"Ah…" Müller shot a puzzled look at Rostov, but found blank eyes staring back at him. He turned back to the young linguist.

"Yes, very well, thank you," he bluffed. "Now, though, Ensign, would you mind if we spoke in an idiom that we both understand?"

"Deutsch?" Hoshi proposed with a warm smile

Bernhard grimaced. "Ah, maybe another time," he said, scratching his forehead. "Could you please call Doctor Phlox for us? We've been here for almost half an hour and--"

"Here I am, here I am!"

As if on cue, the very man appeared beside Hoshi.

"Are you enjoying your stay in decon?" he asked, a spark in his blue eyes. "I trust you like my choice of movie." His voice got husky. "It wasn't a chancy choice, you know?" He chuckled, muttering to himself, "Chancy choice; that's a good one."

"Not a chancy choice?" Mike repeated warily.

"Yes, indeed. I got permission from the Captain to have _Seven Brides for Seven Brothers _running ship-wide for at least a couple of hoursI thought it would be a fine way to introduce the crew to my – ah – let's call it 'recreating program'."

"Ooh lala!" Hoshi exclaimed coyly, with a flutter of eyebrows.

Phlox shot her a humorous look. "Indeed." Then he pressed a button and blessedly the movie's sound was muted.

"_Ship_-wide?" Bernhard wondered with a grimace. But his focus was captured again by Hoshi, who was blowing them kisses. "Au revoir," the lady in question said; and she disappeared in a hip-swaying walk that was hardly regulation, leaving them along with the Denobulan.

The decon chamber fell into a stunned silence.

"Are you going to ask or shall I," Rostov muttered to the side.

Müller licked his lips. He wasn't at all sure he wanted to know. Ah – what the heck – it couldn't be worse than Mayweather's piloting. He hoped.

"And this _recreating _program would be?"

"You'll love it!" Phlox exclaimed, as if he'd been waiting for the question. "People have been showing increasing signs of tension. It is my duty as Chief Medical Officer to correct that," he explained. A professional expression re-shaped his face. "Every crewman on Enterprise will receive an appropriate mate," he said as if he were announcing that he would be giving them all an anti-allergy shot. "Could be even more than one, actually, since there are more males than females," he amended thoughtfully. Breaking into a smile, he went on with sudden enthusiasm, "The important thing is to abolish this… _absurd_ Starfleet rule about fraternization, which is definitely injurious to health. I am confident that once my program is under way, the Captain won't need to send people on shore leave any more. They'll have all the relaxation they need right here on board."

"Lucky us," Müller mumbled on the side to his companion.

"Something is very wrong here," Rostov replied, not bothering to camouflage his words.

"You don't say," Müller shot back.

"I'm glad you think that too," Phlox agreed. He disappeared, and a moment later the door unlocked. "You are free to go," he said with a dismissive wave of the hand.

Müller exited the room, clearing his throat as he skirted around Phlox. "Just one last question, Doctor: what, in your way of seeing things, is _an appropriate mate_?" He was aware of Rostov's glare, but ignored it. If, as it seemed likely, he was going to have to defend his fellow crewmen from this 'mad alien', he needed to learn more about his tactics.

Phlox crossed his arms and held his chin in one hand. "I'm still working on that. There are many possible ways to match people, of course: age, background, just to quote the most obvious ones; but why not be creative, huh? It would be interesting, actually, to investigate individuals at a genetic level, so that any offspring…"

"We get the idea, thank you Doctor." Rostov grabbed Müller's arm and pulled him urgently along. "Let's go, before he arranges for us to… Well, you know," he muttered awkwardly.

Bernhard bit his lip. "I've got to find Lieutenant Reed," he said, almost to himself, taking long strides in the corridor, with his engineer friend almost running beside him.

"And what makes you think the man will have his marbles intact?" Rostov asked with a snort. "Virtually everyone we have encountered has had theirs rolling loose."

"Well, Commander Tucker has lost his somewhere, that's for sure," Bernhard commented, as he watched in horror the man from the film do his act on yet another screen, conveniently placed outside the turbo-lift. "There doesn't seem to be a corner of the ship where you can escape _Seven Brides for Seven Brothers_."

The lift finally arrived and the door opened. A lithe form exited it.

"Welcome back, Ensign, Crewman. Did you have fun?"

And if there had been any residual hope that things might not be, after all, totally, utterly, miserably screwed up on Enterprise, T'Pol's smile instantly dispelled it.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

§ 3 §

Hand on the handle of the Armoury hatch, Müller heaved a steadying breath and pushed it open, taking a nervous peek inside. The place seemed as quiet as usual. Lieutenant Reed was at his workbench, deeply absorbed in something – a reassuring sight. A couple of crewmen were also in the room, similarly occupied. And there was actually _silence_. No _beautiful hides_, no _crossed eyes_, no…

He had spoken too soon. Taking a step inside and shifting his gaze around, it fell on – or rather, lifted to – the ever-present screen, placed on the higher level. At least the sound had been muted.

"Ensign," Reed said cordially, becoming aware of his presence. "I thought you would resume duty tomorrow."

He sounded normal enough, but Bernhard wasn't going to let his guard down. A mad Lieutenant Reed could be even more dangerous than a mad Doctor Phlox.

"I only came to… see if everything was all right, Sir," he replied warily, automatically straightening his out-of-uniform shoulders.

Reed raised his eyebrows. "_All right_?" He pulled his face in a sardonic smirk. "I presume you have noticed Commander Tucker's latest _upgrades_ around the ship." He snorted. "Indeed they're hard to miss."

Bernhard shot a fleeting look to the object in question. Men in chequered shirts were still courting girls in frills. "Uhm, yes. Peculiar," he said noncommittally.

"Bloody devious," Reed rectified, eyes narrowing, "the way the Commander managed to twist the Captain's arm."

Bernhard felt the first inkling of concern. '_Bloody devious_ might well be vintage Reed jargon, but not with a subordinate while criticising a superior officer. He wondered what the Lieutenant meant by 'twisting the Captain's arm'. Dare he ask? He _bloody well_ had to, if he wanted to understand what was going on here.

"Twist the Captain's arm, Sir?" he repeated, shaping his voice into a question.

Reed snorted again. A glint crossed his grey gaze, which turned suddenly conspiratorial. He stopped what he was doing to give him his undivided attention. "I could use your help, Bernhard," he said. "It's a good thing you came by the Armoury, actually," he added, almost to himself. Putting some wire and pliers down, he came round the bench and took him by an arm, dragging him a few steps away. "_Seven Brides for Seven Brothers_ isn't the worst thing we'll be subjected to," he spat out albeit in a low voice, as if some enemy could overhear them. "The Captain has gone insane."

_Now that's something new._ Müller almost rolled his eyes. He had difficulty following Reed's train of thought, but the Lieutenant had a bright mind, which meant that he often leapt steps ahead in his reasoning, and one had to try and keep up with him. He could only hope that this was the case here now; or else it meant that Reed too had been infected with whatever was affecting seemingly the entire crew. But… no. Maybe the Lieutenant _was_ ok: if the Captain had given his imprimatur to Commander Tucker's idea, he had to have gone off kilter. And Reed wouldn't have recognized that, if he wasn't ok. This surely must mean that he was still in his right mind. Müller scratched his head, trying to undo the lovely knot he had made of his own reasoning.

"Insane? How so, Sir?" he enquired warily.

Reed's answer came in that ominous low voice he often liked to produce. "He intends to torture the crew."

"_Torture_?" Bernhard's mind did a double take. A torturing Archer was most undoubtedly very off kilter.

"Through these… _blighted_ monitors the Commander has put up all over the ship," Reed spat out. "The Captain will submit the entire crew to lessons on water polo's technique and tactics. That's why he agreed to let Tucker go ahead with his harebrained idea."

"Water polo lessons? Why would he--" Bernhard cut himself off. If the Captain was not himself, that was a stupid question.

Reed tilted his head and crossed his arms tightly over his chest, and with another sarcastic snort said, "He's labouring under the false hope that the crew will actually be interested and learn something, and the bloody water polo match will be more competitive."

This, Bernhard just had to ask. "_What_ water polo match, Sir?"

"Now, this is what we'll do," Reed said, ignoring his last question. He uncrossed his arms and took Müller another step away from the other two crewmen. Not that they seemed alert to their conversation: they were still working away. "We need to sabotage the monitors. The sooner the better. I count on you, Ensign."

A flurry of questions dawned in Bernhard's mind. Would sabotaging the monitors – monitors Commander Tucker had installed and the Captain had sanctioned – be considered an act of insubordination? Or would it be the right thing to do, considering the officers' state of mind? After all, come to think of it, defying Reed's order would fall under the 'disobeying superior officer' category. Great.

"Uhm, Sir… but the Captain…" he began, letting his gaze grow concerned.

"Your first duty is to save the crew, Ensign," Reed said in frustration. "I told you: the Captain has gone insane – mad, nuts, crazy, cuckoo, irrational, daft. Get the idea?"

Müller licked his lips. "And what about you, Sir?" _Ouch_. That wasn't what he had meant; but Reed didn't seem aware of it.

"I am busy, of course. Tomorrow is the 21st of October."

Now this was at least three leaps ahead, as far as Müller was concerned. And final proof, perhaps, that Reed's marbles were also a bit loose. He let his green eyes show his disconcert; not that he could have kept it from them. Reed bristled.

"The 21st of October, Ensign," he repeated slowly, as if he was talking to a stupid child. He heaved a long-suffering sigh. "Didn't they teach you anything in school? What happened on the 21st of October?"

Bernhard grimaced. Even if by chance he did know, his brain right now was in a twist. "Columbus discovered America?" he tried.

Reed's facial muscles twitched. "Wrong way around: that was the 12th of October. 21st, Ensign." Blowing out a frustrated breath, he said deadpan, "No navy men in your family, I take it."

"Uh, no, I'm afraid not. Not too much sea in Bavaria."

"Battle of Trafalgar. Admiral Lord Nelson commanding the Royal Navy defeated the French and Spanish fleet." Reed said, pride making him look two inches taller.

"Oh." Bernhard desperately tried to find some connection between that, water polo, Phlox's _Seven Brides for Seven Brothers_, and Commander Tucker's _upgrades_.

"You'll understand now," Reed went on, "that I have other, more important concerns than going around the ship sabotaging monitors – vital as that may be to the well-being of the crew."

In ordinary circumstances Müller would have never dared ask, but now he felt it his duty. "Such as?" he blurted out. He watched with apprehension the Lieutenant's eyes narrow.

"Such as finishing preparing the fireworks, of course," he spat out, with a jerk of his head in the direction of his workbench. "There are three of us working at it, but I still have to supervise Pascoe's and Oat's work and make sure that everything is ready by tomorrow."

Bernhard bit the inside of his cheeks, noticing for the first time that the other two crewmen, though not from the Armoury complement, were thoroughbred Brits. This was a nightmare. There was no doubt the crew had to be saved, but from more than a few lessons on how to swim with a ball.

He straightened his shoulders again, which had kept sagging lower and lower, and put on his most resolute expression. "You need not worry, Sir," he forced out. "I will try my best to save the crew."

Reed gave him a firm nod of approval, and Bernhard turned and left the Armoury, desperate to find the only other sane person left on board.

* * *

"Mike!"

A hand landed a cordial pat on Rostov's back as he closed the hatch after entering Engineering.

"Did'ya have a good time?"

"Yes, Sir, thank you. A very good time," Michael replied, turning to face his Commanding Officer.

Twinkling blue eyes travelled up and down him. "What ya doin' here, anyway?" Tucker asked with a broad smile. "Your shift isn't startin' until tomorrow. Don't tell me you miss work!"

"Ah, well," Mike fumbled, "not quite, to be honest. But I noticed the monitors around the ship and…" He trailed, hoping the Commander would pick up from there and explain this weird idea of his.

Tucker's gaze twinkled some more. "You have, huh?" he commented with a chuckle. "So how d'you like the idea?"

Rostov took a moment to reply, desperately searching for some neutral adjective; he'd never been very good with language. "It's… unusual," he eventually said, with an idiotic smile.

"Wait till I commandeer the programmin'," Tucker said, rubbing his hands in anticipation. "I had to make a few wily concessions to get the Captain's approval. Phlox's musical will be out of the way in another half hour, and then…" He made a cutting gesture with his finger at his throat. "Then it's gonna be non-stop classic Westerns, except for a little water polo here and there." He put his hands to his waist, grinning from ear to ear. "Can't wait."

Rostov's mind came to a screeching halt. "Water polo?" he wondered with a frown.

"Yeah. Capt'n wants us to learn the finer points of the game. So that we aren't total newbies when we get to play it."

"When we get to play it," Rostov repeated like a monkey, afraid to ask an outright question.

Tucker's face seamlessly reshaped to serious as realization sunk in. "Ah, right – guess you were left out of the loop: we're building a swimmin' pool in cargo bay one."

The nonchalant tone, in its pronouncement of irrefutable madness, was as bad as the news. Rostov blinked a couple of times, wishing he'd wake up. Yes, this must be a bad dream. No, it wasn't: the Commander was still there, cheerful smile plastered once again on his happy face.

"But Sir," Mike said warily, "have you thought of the possible consequences of having all that water…"

Tucker made a dismissive gesture. "There are the emergency bulkheads."

"The Titanic had those," Rostov commented quietly under his breath. Not quietly enough; a hearty laugh met his words.

"Don't worry, Mike, we won't sink!" Tucker gave him a final, would-be reassuring pat. "Gotta go check on the progress. See ya tomorrow mornin'. Glad to have you back!"

With that, he rushed out of Engineering. Mike stood watching the closed hatch for a long moment, unable to move. Perhaps he and Bernhard could take the shuttlepod back to the planet, and have another Karfa or two. Yes, that was a brilliant idea. Except for Mayweather's piloting.

With a groan, he finally stumbled forward, out of his beloved department, in search of the only other sane person left on board.

TBC


	4. Chapter 4

§ 4 §

It was a wonderful ship, Enterprise. Müller had burst with pride when he had learnt he had been accepted to serve on it. A dream come true.

As he walked along the corridor towards Engineering, his mind went back to a night a couple of years back, when he had briefly returned to his hometown Rosenheim, in the South of Germany, to say farewell to his family before the ship launched on her mission. There hadn't been much time, but he had wanted to be with his parents and siblings one more time, before that jump into the unknown. Yes, because they might well have known some of what was out there, but they were still going to go where no Humans had gone before, and he wasn't going to do that without a last hug to his dear ones. It wasn't a matter of fearing he wouldn't see them again; rather the wish to share with them the happiness of the moment.

His father Markus had organised a surprise party, and the moment Bernhard had stepped into the house he had found himself surrounded by neighbours and friends, rivers of beer and mounds of food. It was as if a mine had exploded in the usually quiet Müller household.

Bernhard felt warmth and a touch of wistfulness spread within him as images flashed through his mind – his younger twin brothers Alex and Thomas making him promise that he'd bring them back a rock from any planets he'd set foot on; the sparkling yet slightly anxious look in the eyes of his mother Katharina.

Refocusing on the present, he wondered what kind of expression would be on their faces if they knew what was going on on the ship at the moment. Well, despite Doctor Phlox's "recreating program" and best intentions, he hoped that he could spend the next shore leave at home, and be able to tell them about this incident and even maybe laugh about it. Right now, however, he couldn't even bring a faint smile to bare.

As he rounded the next corner he found himself face to face with the very person he'd been looking for: _grim_ face to _grim_ face.

"I take it your Chief is as gone as mine," Mike said, as soon as their eyes met.

"The man is busy preparing fireworks to celebrate Nelson's victory," Bernhard replied deadpan.

Rostov reeled like a drunkard. "You can't let him, that's dangerous!" he cried out in horror. "At least mine is only building a swimming pool." Putting one arm out to a bulkhead to recover his balance, he added as an afterthought, "Might even be fun to keep it, after all this is over."

"What?" Müller had hoped Reed's words hadn't actually meant that they'd be playing water polo _on board_; the news now struck him as if something had fallen right on his head, with a conk that made his brain reverberate with all the possible consequences. "Then it's true that the Captain…" He scrunched his green eyes closed at the idea, only to be assaulted by images of the crew lined up at attention in swimming trunks and caps, around a pool instead of a situation table. He flashed them open again to escape the worrisome picture.

"Your Chief must be stopped!" they cried out in unison.

"Look…" they both continued.

Bernhard grimaced, and so did Rostov. It was like being in front of a mirror. Müller turned slightly to one side to break the annoying pattern.

"Gawd, I'm hungry," he muttered, acknowledging the low rumble in his belly. "I can't think when my stomach is empty."

"All right, let's re-fuel."

With sudden determination and total disregard for rank, Rostov grabbed him by an arm and started towards the Mess Hall.

They boarded the turbo lift each lost in his own thoughts. The silence was sliced by a curse as Bernhard exited the lift and something went flying past, forcing him to duck.

"What the hell…?"

With a loud splat the UFO hit the deck plating and skidded to a halt.

"Sorry, Sir," a cheerful voice said, as if nearly beheading a superior officer were nothing much to worry about. "After so many months in space I've lost my hand."

The uniformed man to whom the voice belonged ran past them to retrieve the fallen thing. Bernhard wished for the first time he had at least three pips on his shoulder. He counted to ten. And then added another ten, narrowing his eyes as he tried to remember the man's name. It worked.

"Crewman… Ngu, isn't it? Hydroponics."

Ngu turned to him, looking impressed. "Good memory, Sir. Rossi and I were getting in a few throws. Ever played frisbee?"

Flicking a light-hearted salute, he jogged past Müller and Rostov, indifferent to their eloquent frowns.

"Ready?" he called to his partner.

_Calm and collected, Bernhard_.

"CREWMEN!"

Ngu and Rossi turned to regard him as they would someone in need of a cure. A strong cure. For his frail nervous system.

There was a beat of silence and another mental count to ten.

Bernhard cleared his throat. "You're relieved of duty," he said a few decibels lower.

"Duty?" Rossi spat it out as if were an alien word. "We aren't on duty. We're playing frisbee."

Bernhard could feel his blood pressure rising, sending a flush up his cheeks. "Then you're… both confined to quarters until further notice," he sputtered.

The two groaned and grimaced and rolled their eyes; then dejectedly filed past, shuffling their feet like despondent children, disappearing into the turbo lift.

"Well done, Ensign," Rostov commented. He watched the lift doors close and added, "Two less to worry about."

Bernhard brought a hand to his chin. "You know, maybe that's what we should do. Lock everyone up in their quarters until we find the way to make them sane again."

A loud grumble reminded them where they were headed.

"Come on," Mike said. "We have enough troubles without you collapsing from hunger."

They reached the Mess Hall without any further incident, and marched in silence to the serving cabinet. Rostov slid the glass door open. Leaning on the upper edge, they looked inside. Mixed salad, broccoli and anchovies, cauliflower in white sauce, asparagus soup, baked tomatoes, rice and peas… green-whatever on toasted bread. The heartiest thing on offer was Chef's famous 'polpettone' of string beans and potatoes.

Müller turned his head to Rostov. "Let me guess." Despair was finally entering his voice.

"Chef has gone vegetable mad," Mike finished for him.

With a sigh, they selected a couple of plates, and a few minutes later they were sitting at a table.

The Mess Hall had been beautified with as many as four extra-large screens, one in each corner of the room; there was really no way they could avoid noticing the new programme – _the_ threatened new programme. No more dancing boys and girls. Now a bare-chested man, showing off enviable pectorals, was balancing a water polo ball in one hand, explaining the secrets of a secure grip. A group of female crewmembers had gathered around one of the monitors, and were squealing in admiration at every leap of the instructor's muscles.

"Guess who's gonna know everything about water polo technique when the time comes," Mike commented sarcastically.

Bernhard forcefully swallowed his morsel of polpettone and waved the fork threateningly at his friend. "The time _must not_ come," he admonished. "We must do something about it."

Mike heaved a seemingly never-ending breath; then puffed it out in one explosive huff. "To be able to fix something, first we have to figure out where the problem lies; what caused the break." He shoved some veggies in his mouth.

"Spoken like a true engineer," Bernhard said. Despite their situation he felt a smile blossom on his face at his friend's professionally-biased approach. "However, we must also apply ourselves to avert the danger that threatens the crew," he added. He cast another look of disconcert at the squeaking group of women. "By blackening those monitors, for example. Lieutenant Reed's marbles might be as overcooked as the peas you're eating, but I think his idea of putting the screens out of commission is worth considering."

Mike shot a slightly disturbed look at the food in question, lowering his fork with its precarious load back to his plate. "Spoken like a true armoury man," he muttered. He lifted his eyebrows innocently and asked, "What did your Chief suggest: blow them up?"

"He didn't specify, actually," Bernhard replied wryly. "He was too busy with the Admiral's celebrations." He saw Rostov shudder.

"Disarming those fireworks must take precedence over sabotaging the monitors," the man said darkly.

"It's easier said than done." Bernhard passed a hand through his short, dark hair. "If I know the Lieutenant, he won't let them out of sight. On the other hand…" Putting another piece of polpettone in his mouth, he chewed on it slowly, strategies forming in his mind. "If we sabotage the monitors and perhaps hinder the construction of the pool," he pondered after he had swallowed his morsel, "we might create enough of a disruption that the Captain will require Lieutenant Reed to look into the matter; and then Lieutenant Reed will have to leave the Armoury, and the fireworks, unguarded."

A collective scream of joy made them turn abruptly. The instructor was now in the water, demonstrating how to swim while pushing a ball forward; he was taking powerful strokes and his muscular upper body was showcased by close-ups that made you almost smell the chlorine in the water. Women trained to face whatever the universe might throw at them were turning gelatinous in front of a freaking screen. As he observed the scene mouth agape, Bernhard found himself thinking he'd rather be ordered to the brig than into one of those ridiculous swimming caps.

"Ah, Mr. Rostov, I was looking for you."

Startled out of his reverie, Bernhard turned to the owner of the well-known voice. He felt his friend tense up.

"Doctor?" Mike enquired warily.

"I think I have found the perfect mate for you," Phlox said in a voice thick with anticipation.

"Uh."

A punch in the stomach would have wrested just about the same muffled response out of a man.

"I'm kind of busy at the moment," Rostov croaked out, scratching his head. He looked in desperate need of a watertight excuse to keep this conversation from going into more detail.

"But that's exactly the problem," Phlox countered, suddenly quite serious. "Too much work. Which leads to too much tension." He jerked his chin down and his head back, in that familiar way of his. "Don't you want to know who she is?" he asked, sounding almost offended.

Rostov licked his lips. "Who?"

There was a hint of curiosity now on his face, which Müller tried to discourage with meaningful glares. That's all he needed now, for Mike to indulge the Doctor's madness.

Phlox rolled on his feet. "Crewman Santos," he revealed, shifting his blue eyes from one to the other.

"But Crewman Santos and I have nothing in common," Rostov blurted out after a moment. "She doesn't come from the same region of Earth; she is a biologist, and she… she just isn't the girl for me," he sputtered.

Müller winced in response to his friend's desperate glance. Crewman Santos was a lovely girl, but extremely exuberant, and an incredible chatterbox. Ten minutes with her could exhaust you more than a year in the Marines.

Phlox smiled. "Nonsense," he exclaimed with elation. "That's just the point. I've thought about it, and I've come to the conclusion that the best way to make good matches is actually to make perfect mismatches," he went on in the weird tone he produced when he thought he was being funny. "That way the couples will have a lot to discover about each other, and their relationship won't be at all boring."

"Oh."

Another pained monosyllable. Bernhard looked at Mike in concern; his sixth sense, though, alerted him to the fact that Phlox's boring gaze had now shifted to him.

"I think you should consider Ensign El Nagar, Mister Müller," the Doctor said, a thoughtful hand cradling his chin. "Yes, indeed. I'm sure you'd find her passion for reptiles interesting." Straightening up, he walked to the drink dispenser, adding over his shoulder, "I'll set up rendezvous, and let you know the where and when."

Müller shivered – if anything gave him the creeps, that was reptiles. He was trying to remember who the hell Ensign El Nagar was, when Rostov caught him by the arm again, pulling him up and along, out of the Mess Hall.

"We've got to do something, and fast," the engineer said, swallowing hard. "I've no intentions of dating Santos."

Bernhard gave a sharp nod. "The plan stands: you look to fix things, I look to break them," he stated firmly.

"Sir?" Mike wondered, automatically responding to the command tone. He looked perplexed and even slightly worried.

"Don't worry, I haven't gone mad." Bernhard gave his friend a reassuring smile. "You know what I mean: you try to find out what happened so we can fix things, and I try to find a way to black out those monitors and keep us out of swimming trunks."

"Ah," Mike blew out in relief. "You had me worried for a moment.

"If nothing of importance happens sooner, we'll reconvene at my quarters in…" he looked at his watch. "Two hours."

With a last look, worthy of conspirators from Macbeth, they separated.

TBC


	5. Chapter 5

§ 5 §

"Subcommander?"

Rostov stepped onto the bridge and waited for the Vulcan Officer to acknowledge him. She did so without turning from her monitor, with a raised arm and a 'just a sec' that, short as it was, still suggested plenty was amiss. He forced his legs to move and approached the science station, stopping at a discreet distance.

T'Pol was wearing a new 'uniform': silky… _pajamas_? Mike tried not to stare at the bare slither of midsection put on display by their Second in Command.

"Sorry, Ensign," T'Pol said, turning to him. "Fascinating read. I doubt the Hound of the Baskervilles is a real creature," she wondered, a deep frown on her brow. "It sounds rather outlandish, after all. Don't you think?"

"Ma'am?"

"I'm sure Sherlock Holmes and Doctor Watson will find what's behind the fiend," she went on. "Still, it's… exciting."

Exciting? Wasn't that a fairly strong emotion? Rostov watched his superior officer shrug her silk-coated shoulders, which made her top rise a bit more, and ordered his eyes to lift back to the lady's face; he had no authority, however, to order a blush away from his neck and cheeks. T'Pol's already big and beautiful eyes grew even bigger.

"Are you feeling all right, Crewman?" she enquired. "You look… hot."

Him, hot!Mike swallowed. Why couldn't Phlox _mis_match him with… _No, no, no, no, back to the here and now_. "Ah, yes, abso-- I mean no… I'm just fine," he stuttered, refocusing on the present. "I was… I was wondering if anything special had happened while Müller and I were away."

Sato, at the next console, was singing to herself in some strange language, moving in rhythm with some music clearly coming through her earpiece.

"Many things have happened," T'Pol replied with another belly-button-revealing shrug. Her eyes now darted to a fairly large monitor placed in a strategic position under the view screen: on it Mr. Biceps had stepped out of the pool and, sculptured body dripping wet, was smiling to the camera as he wrapped up his lesson. "Commander Tucker decided to equip the whole ship with movie screens," she enumerated off the fingers of one hand, "the Captain is having a swimming pool built in cargo bay one; the Doctor…"

"Yes, yes, I know all that," Rostov cut her off – heavens, he was being totally disrespectful. "But… did anything else happen, _before_? Anything… strange, unexpected?"

T'Pol scrunched up her face in thought. Eventually her eyes lit up like a light bulb. "Porthos escaped from the Captain's quarters," she exclaimed. "He managed to make his way to the ready room undetected, and I found him sitting in the Captain's chair in front of the monitor, talking with someone from the planet's tourist bureau."

"Talking?" This was too much. Rostov brought a tired hand to his eyes. How could he ever hope to find out what had turned the crew into a band of lunatics if they were _this_ lost to the real world?

"I realize it sounds illogical," T'Pol commented. "Porthos was barking and the man was barking back."

Mike wished she stopped giving those tantalizing shrugs.

"Will that be all, Crewman? I'm eager to go back to my reading."

_Eager?_ _A Vulcan?_ "Huh? Yes, yes, that will be all."

T'Pol turned away from him and buried herself in her reading again.

Hoshi was still moving as if she were sitting on an ants' nest. Mike tried to make out what she was singing to herself, but could only catch a word or two, which sounded suspiciously like Klingon. He wondered for a moment what kind of lyrics Klingon rock songs would have. 'Another one bites the dust?'Better not find out.

He was going to turn and leave, but for some reason instead stopped and blurted out, "Subcommander, why are you wearing pajamas on the Bridge?"

_Stupid, stupid, stupid. _Why had he asked such a stupid thing? It was obvious why. Oh, well. If everyone was out of their right mind, a stupid question would go unnoticed.

"It's simply more comfortable than those clinging things that pass for uniforms," T'Pol distractedly replied without lifting her eyes off the monitor. "Besides, the Doctor is supposed to tell me about my date. I thought this attire was more appropriate."

Rostov shuddered. They had to find a way out of this before Enterprise was transformed into a… Never mind.

Just then the ready room door opened and Captain Archer stepped out. He had a smug smile on his face.

"That was a very good lesson," he said to no one in particular, but looking around in expectation. "Did you enjoy it?" He was thoroughly ignored.

Mike's eyes automatically went to the screen, where U.S Cavalry men were now riding through a canyon.

"Ah, Rostov." Archer smiled warmly. "Then everyone is on board?" he asked, again receiving no answer. "T'Pol?"

"Yes, everyone's back," she muttered dismissively, eyes still glued to her Sherlock Holmes.

Archer rubbed his hands. "Then I guess we should weigh anchor."

"Ah, no, Sir!" Mike cried out before he could stop himself. Reining in the urgency in his voice, he added, "If I may, Captain, that doesn't seem… advisable." He really didn't want to experience some of Mayweather's recent piloting at warp speed. Besides, he wouldn't trust the crew right now to keep a merry-go-round on track, let alone a starship in a stable warp field.

"What do you mean, Crewman?" Archer asked with a frown.

Good thing he wasn't the type of captain to resent his subordinates for speaking up. Mike swallowed. "Well, I was thinking that, uhm, Commander Tucker can't be distracted from finishing your swimming pool; and there are Lieutenant Reed's fireworks… they are planned for tomorrow…" Gosh, this was harder than free-climbing up a mirror.

There was a pause.

"You know, you are right," Archer said thoughtfully. "We'd better hang around for another day or so." He broke into another warm smile. "And that will give the crew a chance to follow a few more of Brad's lessons." He turned and headed back to the ready room, muttering to himself, "I'll tell Trip to schedule them right away."

Mike released the breath he'd been holding.

Just then Bernhard was heaving a deep one, mustering the determination to look inside cargo bay one.

"Wow, wow, EASY!"

Trip Tucker's voice could be heard even from outside the closed hatch. Müller peeked inside.

"Down, slowly… That's it, good."

Wide strips of thin metal were being lowered inside an imposing rectangular structure about two and a half meters high. Tucker was supervising from atop some scaffolding on wheels.

"Kelby, get a couple of men and start solderin'," Tucker said, ever his energetic and enthusiastic self. "By tonight I want to start fillin' this baby with water."

That's all Bernhard needed to know. The pool was proceeding too quickly; besides the bay was filled with people, there was no way he could do anything to sabotage their work. He'd better concentrate on those monitors. He was no engineer, but he was sure he could find a way to 'fix' them.

Things went rather smoothly. In one hour's time he had blacked out ten monitors. But now came the difficult part: the remaining ones were those in the most sensitive locations.

The Mess Hall – he decided – was a priority. They couldn't have half the female complement swooning in front of a screen. Plus, if he blacked out the Mess Hall the Captain was sure to hear about it. And while he was going there he might even see if Chef had put something more substantial on offer. His system had already sucked up and used whatever nutrition that cursed polpettone had contained. A row of sausages danced in his mind so vividly that he almost felt he could grab them.

Here he was now. Bernhard triggered the door open and entered. The group of female crewmen had left; no fans of John Wayne, probably. Not many people were sitting at the tables. Still… with four screens to sabotage, even few were too many. He was back to the situation in the cargo bay. But what if…

Clearing his throat, Bernhard clapped his hands. Soon all eyes turned to him. "I am sorry to disturb you," he said very seriously, "but Doctor Phlox is requesting the crew to go to sickbay for ah… inoculation against… some bug creeping on board, which he only just found out about."

There was a collective grumble that rose above the cavalry's shooting. Then people reluctantly pushed to their feet. A couple of dry-witted comments floated to his ears as long-faced crewmembers filed before him and out of the room. Things like 'a bug a day keeps the crew in sick bay' and 'from the shooting to the shot'; but all in all they complied obediently and soon they were out of the way.

Allowing himself a smug and moderately wicked smile, Bernhard rushed to his task: in no time both cavalry and Indians had been pushed back - into blissful nothingness.

Ahhhh! It was too good to have silence and just the plain, grey and boring bulkheads as background. He should leave, because his little expedient would soon be discovered, but first…

With hope and trepidation, Bernhard approached the serving cabinet.

"Ensign? What is all this _silenzio_? What happened to the _cavalleria _and the _Indiani_?"

Chef was in the galley door, a chopping knife in his hands.

"I wouldn't know, Giuseppe," Müller replied innocently. "The screens suddenly went black."

There was a frustrated huff. "I knew it! _Dannazione_! Just when I was about to put the _zucchini ripieni_ in the oven and come and watch! I told Commander Tucker I needed a screen also in the galley, but no! He wouldn't _waste_ one for _only_ three people!" Chef gave an angry little laugh. "Wait till he asks me for pecan pie next time."

Ignoring the irate man, Bernhard slid open the cabinet's glass door. Vegetables, vegetables, vegetables and more vegetables.

"Chef!" he burst out, turning what he knew were very cold eyes on the man. He couldn't help it. Since he was a kid his patience had always been inversely proportional to his hunger, and when this was bad enough people had better tiptoe around him. "What exactly are you planning to do? Starve us? There is nothing in this cabinet that will provide enough energy to make me lift my little finger, let alone keep my one-meter-ninety-two upright!"

Giuseppe's frustration grew even worse. The man had a proud streak in him, and never took criticism well. "Mediterranean diet," he spat out. "Universally recognised as the best."

Bernhard gaze narrowed. "Surely even you Mediterraneans do eat _some _meat."

"Not much. More fish. And pasta, _naturalmente_."

"And where on earth are _those_?" Pasta and fish might not be as satisfying as sausages or a juicy stake, but were still better than cauliflower or peas.

"_Finiti_," Chef said with an eloquent gesture. "Finished. They are in the stomachs of the crew."

Bernhard could not help letting out a loud rumble of frustration.

"However, Ensign…" Chef had suddenly turned all honey. He took a tentative step out of his domain. "If you were to get me a monitor in the galley, so that I could watch the movies while I work…" He lifted his eyes innocently up and sideways. "I think I might still have some ravioli somewhere…"

Bernhard bit the inside of his cheek, considering the proposition. After all, only Giuseppe and a couple of stewards had access to the galley. He could risk the sanity of three crewmembers for the better good. Because if he didn't put something nourishing inside him, he would soon collapse and who, then, would save the crew?

"Ravioli _and_ sausages," he said deadpan. After all, the chopping knife might well be in Chef's hand, but _he_ was the one metaphorically holding it by the handle. "Take it or leave it."

TBC


	6. Chapter 6

§ 6 §

Rostov stepped out the turbo lift and looked around, a bit lost. Exiting the Bridge, he had collapsed against the lift's wall and pushed a random button, unclear about what his next move should be. He now realized he had alighted on B deck. Where the hell was he going to go? How was he supposed to unravel the mystery? While he was racking his brains for some ideas he became aware of a strange background noise.

_Ntz, ntz, ntz, ntz…_

It was coming from… Tilting his head, he inched towards a cabin and put his ear to the door. Yes. It sounded like a full-fledged party was going on in there. Well, perhaps Bernhard could find a way to lock the quarters with its occupants inside.

With a sigh he pushed off the door and turned his thoughts to more pressing issues. He had to get to Engineering and try and access the sensors' logs, see if anything suspicious had registered during the two days they had been on shore leave. Yes, that's what he would do. Back to the turbo lift.

It was an interesting trip, to Engineering. He had to dodge a marathon and a game of bowling. He also caught a glimpse of a line of crewmen outside Sickbay who looked to be arguing with the good Doctor, and kept well away from the place.

He was almost there. He could see the Engineering hatch.

"Michael, dear?"

Mike stopped dead in his tracks, a bit like a mouse stuck on one of those glue strips. The saccharine tone of the voice, indeed, made it kind of sticky. He cast a look over his shoulders: Santos flashed him a smile that bared two rows of pearls. It was enough to make him resume movement, at a quicker pace. Away from her.

"Rostov!"

Irritation had entered the voice. Maybe a light jog…

Too late. A hand grabbed the back of Mike's uniform, pulling him to an abrupt halt. Gosh, Santos hadn't looked that strong. Never underestimate determination.

"Your name _is_ Michael Rostov, isn't it?"

Now, that was definitely sarcasm. "Crewman… Santos?" Mike said, playing for time. He let his gaze travel over the oval face and lively dark eyes. Santos was a pretty girl, there was no doubt about it. In fact, now that he looked at her in that way, she was more than pretty. All the curves in the right places, well-designed full lips, and that shiny black hair drawn into a pony-tail that danced with her every movement… If it weren't for some annoying aspects of her personality, namely her unbridled loquaciousness, which invariably made you wish for a magic wand, or a personal transporter…

"Ah, so you know who I am? That's a good start, Michael – you don't mind if I call you Michael, do you? I'm not fond of nicknames; don't ever call me Pam." Mellowing, she trailed a delicate finger along his jaw. "I take it Doctor Phlox has told you about us - our date. Now…"

_There she goes_, Mike thought with an inner sigh, recoiling slightly from the ticklish touch.

"… what I think would be nice is if we went to somewhere quiet. My quarters – or it could be even your quarters… Actually I'd prefer mine, because my roommate is one of the engineers who's putting together that swimming pool - what I mean to say is that she's pretty busy, so we'll have the place to ourselves. And… where was I now? Ah, yes…"

"Pam… _ela_, Pamela…" he tried to put in.

"Before we do that, though, let me set things straight."

Mike had started edging his way along the corridor. Santos was tagging along, but the hatch to Engineering was not far and if he could only get to it…

"First of all I can't stand it when you guys start talking about football, or baseball, or whatever-ball. Pl-lease don't you do that."

_Talk? Not a chance, not to worry_.

Santos sighed. "When men get going on sports there is no stopping them."

_Oh, really?_

"They don't seem to realise that balls, in all shapes and forms, have no allure for most of us girls. Oh…" She clasped a hand to her mouth, her eyes widening. "I mean, you know, rubber balls. Or are they leather?" she wondered with a frown. "Wooden?" She gave a nervous giggle.

Mike, who had blushed redder than a tomato, shrugged. "It depends on which," he said. "_Sport_, I mean." He felt his flush intensify.

Santos cleared her throat. "Anyway, the point is I'm a romantic at heart: I hope you don't expect me to just… well, you know… because I really need to get there gradually, and set the right atmosphere. You guys sometimes seem to think that…"

Her voice faded into the background, for those last words had suddenly triggered a crazy thought. Whether it was a premeditated action or just an instinctive defense move Mike would never know: it happened too fast. But one moment he was listening to the avalanche of words free-falling from Santos's lips, the next he was clutching her close and smothering them with the most unromantic kiss the poor girl had probably ever received.

Santos gave out a whimpering that didn't sound very reassuring and started pushing him roughly off. "You… you…" she growled.

Just then the lights went out, plunging the whole junction into darkness. Mike couldn't see the slap coming, but it found him all right even in the dark, and he would feel it sting for minutes after she had left.

A fraction of a second later the emergency lights kicked on and in their bluish glow Mike watched in fascination as Santos faltered, arms straight and rigid along her sides, fists tight. _Well _– he congratulated himself – _you managed the impossible: leave the girl speechless_. Actually he had done even more: with a final roar of frustration and anger, Crewman Santos turned on her heels and strode away.

So much for Phlox's matching theories.

Just then the lights came back on. Rostov blinked a few times, half expecting Santos to turn, walk back and land him another slap. But the retreating form kept walking away. Only after the young woman had disappeared around the bend in the corridor, did he allow himself to heave a sigh of relief.

* * *

"Lieutenant Reed!"

Malcolm clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes, before reshaping his expression to neutral and turning to his Captain. What did the man want with him now? Wasn't it enough that half of the Engineering complement was busy indulging his ridiculous wish for a game of water polo? Did he have to disrupt the quiet and regulated activities of the Armoury? But this was still his CO, so he straightened his shoulders.

"Captain?"

Archer strode up to him, clearly upset. "Someone has been sabotaging the screens Trip has installed all over the ship," he complained angrily. "The crew is going to miss Brad's next lessons." As if struck by a sudden thought, he turned abruptly to the screen in the Armoury, which was still working, although muted. His green eyes narrowed in suspicion. "Why is the sound off? You wouldn't happen to know anything about this matter, would you?" he asked, towering over him.

So Bernhard was carrying out his mission, bless the Bavarian.

"Sir, I haven't stepped out of the Armoury since this morning," Malcolm replied with an innocent lift of the eyebrows. He couldn't help being secretly proud of such a cunningly truthful-yet-evasive answer.

Archer frowned. Then his eyes went to Malcolm's workbench. "Ah, the _fireworks_," he muttered in a voice that made it clear how much he cared about them. "Well, I hope you're finished with them, because I want you to find out who the hell has been tampering with the screens."

Malcolm's protest didn't go further than a clipped 'Captain', for Archer thundered 'On the double' and turned on his heels, marching out of the place without another word.

* * *

Bernhard left the Mess Hall feeling much better. Just in time, he spotted the group of people he had sent to sickbay appear at the end of one corridor. He quickly turned into another, certain he didn't want to face them right now.

He could hear voices in the distance. Arguing. As he approached, he began to catch a few words.

"We're ready to fill it, so screw your fireworks: tomorrow you'll have no time for them anyway, we'll be swimmin' and practisin' water polo."

That was Commander Tucker. And it wasn't too difficult to imagine who he was arguing with.

"The hell I will! I am not going to degrade myself by throwing a ball around in an overlarge bathtub clad only in briefs and that ridiculous cap. Read my lips: I. WILL. NOT. Especially not tomorrow."

Tucker and Reed were often at odds, but this was a bit loud even for them. Now that he was rounding the bend, Bernhard also had visuals. He cleared his throat.

"Sirs?"

"Müller," Reed exclaimed, as soon as he spotted him. "A timely appearance." He raised his eyebrows eloquently. "The Captain has come to me because _someone_ has been blackening Mister Tucker's screens." With an amused huff, he added, "He wants me to find out who did. Think you can help me, Ensign?"

Commander Tucker's eyes grew suspicious. "You have somethin' to do with it, don't ya?" he said punching Reed's chest with a threatening index finger. "You made it clear right away that you didn't like the screens around the ship."

"Prove it," Reed challenged him with a steely glance.

There was a moment of tense silence; then Tucker replied, "What the hell. I don't have time for this. I have a swimming pool to fill." He gave a wicked grin. "See you tomorrow, Loo-tenant. Don't forget your flip-flops." With that he walked away, presumably towards cargo bay one.

As soon as the Commander was out of earshot, Bernhard felt Reed's hand on his arm. "Great job with those screens, Ensign," he said quietly, grey eyes flashing. "But now it seems we have an even bigger challenge to meet."

Bernhard bit his lip. This was going to be tricky. He knew that Reed would ask for his help, but he needed to keep the man out of the Armoury and get to those fireworks. "Sir, I couldn't do anything about the swimming pool," he said apologetically. "The place was too crowded. I think this needs a finer strategic mind."

There was a dry chuckle.

"I already have a plan, not to worry," Reed said. "I have no intention of being ordered to play water polo." Casting a few guarded looks around, he lowered his voice. "_Wingrave_. That's the chap's family name, you know? The one our female crew members all squeal after. Mister Brad _Wingrave_." He crossed his arms over his chest. "Win-grave. Surely you see how ominous that sounds. It's our duty to save the crew, Ensign. Even at the risk of our own lives."

The man was getting from bad to worse: now he thought even the water polo instructor was a danger. Bernhard was beginning to be more than a bit worried about being able to 'save the crew', especially this Lieutenant. "Aye, Sir," he replied out of habit. "But…"

"Lieutenant Reed," Phlox's unmistakable voice crackled out of the comm. system. "You are to meet Crewman Roanhorse in the observation lounge today at eighteen hours. Please acknowledge."

Reed's facial muscles twitched. With a long-suffering sigh he reached the nearest comm. link. "Reed here. Doctor, I'm afraid I have no time for your experiments."

"They are not experiments, Lieutenant," Phlox's deceivingly kind voice drifted back. "And you, of all the senior staff, indeed seem to be the one most in need of some relaxation. Therefore don't miss your rendezvous. Doctor's orders. Phlox out."

"Crewman Roanhorse." Reed jerked his head sideways. "Isn't she the Navajo with the engineering staff?"

"I believe she is, Sir."

Reed shook his head as if to clear it. "Relaxation! She's the one who likes that obnoxious music band – what was it now – the… _Tacky Throats_, _Virulent Voices_, or something like that," he spat out in disgust. "Whatever does that mad doctor think we could possibly talk about?" he added, his voice rising in disbelief. "All we have in common is a family name beginning with the letter R." He shuddered visibly. "Good grief! Thirty seconds of that music – _if_ it can be called that – is probably enough to give me a fatal allergic reaction."

"Explosive stuff, Sir," Bernhard commented, hiding a grin behind a hand. Indeed the _Virulent Voices_ were dynamite, so to speak, which probably meant that despite the Lieutenant's tirade, he and Roanhorse _did have_ something in common. But perhaps this was not the right moment to point that out to him.

Reed heaved a frustrated sigh. "Never mind," he muttered. "I'll take care of that too. But later. Now it's time to thwart the Captain's plans for that bloody water polo match."

"Aye, Sir."

"Keep up the good work with the screens; but watch out for Captain Archer." Reed gave him a solid pat on the back and went on his way, leaving Bernhard wondering what on earth he had in mind.

TBC


	7. Chapter 7

§ 7 §

"Nothing," Mike said dejectedly as he let himself collapse on Bernhard's bed without a thought for protocol. "I found no hint whatsoever of what could have gone wrong while we were away. Sensors didn't register anything out of the ordinary, and the Subcommander was of no help: she's delusional, says Porthos was talking with the people on the planet." With a shudder he added, "She's on the bridge clad only in flimsy pajamas, by the way."

"That's bad" Müller huffed out darkly – it wasn't clear whether it was referred to the sensors or the Subcommander's state of undress. Dropping down on his desk chair, he went on, "Well, at least the plan worked: Lieutenant Reed was ordered on a wild-goose chase after the 'screens' saboteur' and I was able to slip into the Armoury and defuse his fireworks. But I don't want to think of what will happen when the man finds out." He sighed. "_And_ I locked the revellers in their quarters. Not that we can leave them there indefinitely."

They looked at each other numbly.

"What now?" Rostov eventually blurted out, despair close to the surface.

Bernhard pursed his lips. "Maybe we could approach Phlox. The man is a doctor, for heaven's sake! If we get him to understand that the entire crew has gone off kilter we might just trigger enough sense of duty in him to abandon his 'recreating programme' and help us."

"But he's stark raving mad!" Mike exclaimed. "God only knows what kind of treatments he might want to try out on people."

"Right."

Silence hung heavily for a beat.

"Back to square one."

Müller's despondent tone made Rostov wince. Only one thing seemed certain. "Looks like tomorrow we'll be playing water polo after all," he muttered, almost to himself. He hid a huge yawn behind a hand. He was exhausted; he wished he could stretch out on this mattress and fall asleep, but the worried look he received from the other man was like a shot of stimulant.

"Not if Lieutenant Reed manages to do whatever he has in mind to do," Bernhard said gravely. "And I really don't have any idea of what it might be."

"What? Damn it, but you know your Chief can't be trusted!" The words were out of Mike's mouth too fast. Exhaustion will do that to a man – wipe out his good judgement. Mike cringed. It would be a miracle if he survived this adventure without an official reprimand.

"What do you mean by that, Crewman?" Müller asked, his voice frosting the air around them.

Uh-oh. Rostov licked his lips and shot up to a straighter position to meet eyes that had turned acid green. The single pip on Müller's shoulder suddenly seemed a lot bigger, and to be flashing a red warning sign.

"Well, Sir…" he scrambled. "All I really mean is that, in the state he's in, we ought to keep an eye on the Lieutenant: he could be a danger to the ship." He could tell by Müller's narrowed gaze that the words had done nothing to appease the man. Maybe he too was feeling the tiredness.

"If _your_ Chief hadn't had the… _peculiar_ idea of transforming this ship into a sort of… _movie wonderland_, and hadn't indulged Captain Archer's exotic desire to play water polo on a starship, _my_ Chief wouldn't be a problem now," Bernhard said irritably.

A snort would have been quite appropriate, not to mention satisfying, but Rostov resisted the urge; the frame of mind Bernhard seemed to be in at the moment, he might end up in the brig. He straightened his shoulders even more but allowed himself the pleasure of lifting his eyebrows in a subtly ironic expression. "With all due respect, _Sir_, your Chief was preparing fireworks, an occupation that is potentially a lot more dangerous than submitting the crew to… John Wayne defeating Sitting Bull."

Bernhard filled his lungs with air and held it for a long, taut moment, puffing up his chest. Just when Mike was starting to worry, he expelled it loudly and slumped. A frown creased his brow.

"Was Sitting Bull called that because he was sitting around a lot?" he enquired bluntly, all irritation gone from his voice. "I've always wondered."

Mike relaxed his shoulders too, suddenly feeling lighter with relief. A lot lighter. So much lighter that…

"I wouldn't know about Sitting Bull," he croaked out. "But it looks like _we_ won't be doing a lot of sitting around, for a while."

"Oh, damn!" Bernhard let out softly when he suddenly lost contact with his chair. "What now?"

As he floated upwards Mike raised a hand to avoid bonking his head on the upper bunk. "I think we've discovered what your Chief had in mind," he said with a nervous giggle, watching his friend grab the edge of the desk to keep himself close to the ground.

"Clever," Bernhard said, sounding impressed. "I suppose one can't have much use for a swimming pool without gravity." He pushed off and propelled himself towards the door. "Come on," he called back over his shoulder as he flew away, his trajectory almost as straight as a torpedo, "I have a feeling _your_ Chief isn't going to take this very well."

Mike rolled his eyes. "Great," he muttered. With a hard shove, he began to float towards the door too. "What do you propose we do if we find them at each other's throat, Ensign? Stun them both?"

Bernhard shot a look back over his shoulder. "Could be an idea."

Going _down_ in a turbo-lift while trying to prevent oneself from floating _up_ was a totally new experience; as was making one's way to cargo bay one while dodging exhilarated crewmen engaged in a slow-motion aerial somersault competition. Nothing had prepared them, though, for what they saw when they arrived at their destination. Against all reason, Müller felt a giggle bubble up inside him. Well, it was either that or break into sobs.

Bouncing engineers, like giant grasshoppers, were trying to herd a mass of flying objects that ranged from small tools to crates, to pieces of scaffolding. Blobs of water of all sizes were also floating around, attesting to the fact that Commander Tucker had already begun to fill the swimming pool. When they came into contact with some hard object, the blobs broke and divided into smaller ones, or merged into bigger ones when bumping into each other; then they went off on random paths. As for Commander Tucker, there was no mistaking where the man was, for his distinctive voice was booming throughout the large room. Legs wound around one of the bracings that, blessedly, were preventing the swimming pool's structure from floating up, the man was busy giving a piece of his mind to one Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, who stood in the middle of that chaos as the single unmoving thing around. Between the engineers and the objects spinning around him, Reed looked like a magician whose sorcery had got out of hand, and Müller, who was beginning to feel the tension, almost did guffaw into that laugh.

Arms tightly crossed over his chest, his Chief – the devil – was being kept in place by the magnetized boots he was wearing, and appeared totally unconcerned about the pandemonium of which he was quite obviously responsible; or about the irate superior officer who loomed over him like a ghost.

"I'll have ya fill this pool using a sieve, _Loo-tenant_!" Tucker was threatening, waving a screwdriver at him. "And after that, I'll have ya thrown in the brig for a month!"

"On what counts, Sir?" Reed replied in an innocent tone that was undoubtedly going to get the Commander even more furious.

Rostov nudged him from somewhere to his side, and Bernhard turned to him; like himself, Mike was holding on to the frame of the bay's hatch. "Have you already set your pistol to stun?" the man murmured, giving him a meaningful look. Bernhard smirked in reply.

"Don't ya play the idiot with me, Malcolm," Tucker thundered, capturing their attention again. "Ya sabotaged my screens and now you're sabotaging the _Capt'n_'s pool!"

"Respectfully, Sir, your accusations are not proven."

"Boy-oh-boy, _Diehard_ is really looking for trouble," Rostov commented under his breath.

Müller shot him a wry smile. "He might just get away with it," he said with a hint of satisfaction. He still thought that, all things considered, Reed's fireworks would have been less disruptive of ship's life than _Whiz Kid_'s screens, Captain Archer's swimming pool, or Doctor Phlox's 'regenerating programme'. After all, there was no indication that the Lieutenant would have fired them _inside_ the ship.

"Unfounded my ass!" the Commander retorted. "You're the only person on the ship wearing magnetized boots!"

Reed jerked his chin up in a nobly defiant gesture, a sort of modern Ivanhoe challenging the Black Knight. "You never know when the gravity plating might have some problems. Just because I have the foresight to come prepared, it doesn't necessarily mean that I am guilty, Commander."

"I can't be-lieve this!"

Looking ready to explode, Commander Tucker let go of the screw-driver, which was sent spinning through the air behind him, and suddenly weighed anchor, propelling himself towards the proud and rigid figure of Lieutenant Reed. The latter uncrossed his arms abruptly and took a few startled if laborious steps back. The room echoed with the _clonck_ of his magnetized boots.

Just as Bernhard thought maybe he _would_ have to step in and add 'stunned superior officers' to his file, the comm. System crackled to life.

"Archer to Tucker," a none-too-happy voice paged. "What the hell is going on, Trip? I may have a pilot's license but not for flying around _my quarters_. And Porthos definitely doesn't."

Hardly had the Captain finished speaking that another couple of calls came through, almost on top of each other.

"Commander Tucker, while I might enjoy shedding some weight for a while, my Edosian slugs, along with the rest of my menagerie, have no zeroG training, so kindly restore the gravity plating as soon as possible," Phlox said, in a jocular tone that had an undercurrent of exasperation.

"How am I expected to feed the crew if the galley is in more pieces than a minestrone?" Chef's openly flustered voice echoed.

Tucker groaned loudly; then, with a last look at Reed – one which unmistakably read 'you're not getting off the hook so easily' – he detoured, gracefully bouncing off the floor and somersaulting to the comm. link on the nearest wall.

"Easy, everyone," he said, adding darkly, "I'll see to it right away, Capt'n. I suspect _someone_'s sabotaged the grav. plating."

"What? Another sabotage? And who would want to do something like that?"

Müller exchanged a look with Rostov and they both raised their eyebrows knowingly.

"Obviously someone who doesn't like the idea of playin' water polo, Sir," Tucker said, eyeing Reed. The angry voice of the ship's Captain had produced the hint of a soft blush creeping up the man's neck. Now that brought a smirk of victory to Tucker's face.

"Well, do something!" Archer exclaimed after a stunned pause. "I can't be expected to command a starship from the ceiling."

Tucker puffed out a breath. "Aye, Sir. And… try to keep above your bed, Capt'n. Ya know, for when the grav. platin' comes back online…"

He cut off the communication and turned to Reed. "Don't you think that I'm finished with ya, _Loo-tenant_," he spat out venomously. "As soon as I've--"

"Archer to Reed," the Captain interrupted him, his voice sounding once again through the comm. system. "Please be so kind as to _fly_ to the Bridge…" The choice of verb produced another exchange of glares between Tucker and Reed. "T'Pol has just informed me that we're being hailed from the planet."

TBC

Ah, Diehard has really a bit exaggerated this time, LOL!


	8. Chapter 8

§ 8 §

"Stick to your Chief and help him restore the grav. plating," Müller instructed Rostov. "I'd better follow mine to the Bridge." Even as he spoke he propelled himself after the very man, who had made his clonking way across the hatch and was resolutely heading for the turbo-lift.

Rostov nodded a numb assent, which Bernhard hardly had time to acknowledge. Reed had the advantage of being able to walk; he shouldn't waste any time if he wanted to keep up with him. Bouncing off the walls of the corridor like a ball in a pinball machine, he began to follow the retreating form of his Chief.

"Get to the Armoury, Müller."

Reed had spoken the words without so much as a backward glance, and was still trudging towards the lift. The old fox! He always had everything and everybody under control, even when his mind seemed miles away.

Bernhard winced. He didn't want to go to the Armoury. He needed to be up on the Bridge to see what was going on.

"With all due respect, Sir, I believe I might be of more help on the Bridge," he said, a little out of breath – darn, he'd just about had enough of zeroG! He knew the question that would come next and desperately searched his brain for a believable answer.

"What do you mean?"

_Indeed. What the hell do I mean?_ The pause lasted only about five seconds, but it was enough to make Reed stop and turn.

"Why would you be of more help on the Bridge, Ensign?" he asked, grey eyes narrowing as he tilted his head enquiringly to the side.

"It's… because I've been on the planet with Crewman Rostov, Sir." Bernhard could feel a sheen of perspiration on his brow – it was all that unpredicted exercise, he lied to himself. "I… might have observed something that could be useful, or picked up a word that might prove of… vital importance."

As if Reed, of all people, would buy that… Bernhard studiously avoided looking directly into his boss's piercing gaze while the man mulled his _creative_ reply. Suddenly he turned away and resumed his march, ordering, "Follow me, then."

"Aye, Sir. I'm trying, Sir," Bernhard stuttered, utterly surprised. _Easier said than done…_

When they got to the Bridge, the screen was filled with the angular face of an alien who wasn't looking very pleased at all. He was making quick jerking side movements with his square, hair-covered head, and if that alone weren't enough to convey the idea that he wasn't in the most relaxed frame of mind, he was barking out an avalanche of sounds, which the UT was failing to translate.

Archer was trying to look dignified as he pretended to be seated on the Captain's chair while in reality he was hovering over it, holding on to the armrests to stop himself from floating up. T'Pol was perched on the railing in front of her station, still clad in her pajamas. Even then, she managed to look very Vulcan, legs elegantly crossed and one bare foot unobtrusively wound around a beam to keep herself anchored. Mayweather had slipped out of the top part of his uniform and strapped himself to his seat using the sleeves - clever boy; when he turned to the sound of them entering, Bernhard could see that he still had that mad look about him. He could only hope that Archer wouldn't order him to break orbit, for _orbit_ would most likely not be the only thing this version of their helmsman would break. Sato, on the other hand, was floating in mid air over her console, all her attention focused on the view-screen in front of them and the barking coming from it.

Quite incongruously, directly under the alien was Tucker's still-working smaller screen, on which a stage coach could be seen speeding through a dusty canyon, unaware of the Indians that were about to attack it.

"What's he saying, Hoshi?" Archer asked, grimacing in confusion.

"How should I know, Sir?" the young linguist replied with a shrug that would normally have been quite disrespectful. "You might want to ask Porthos. This sounds just like him when he's looking for attention."

"I don't trust him, Captain. Permission to bring weapons online?"

Archer turned abruptly to Reed's remark, as if he had just become aware of the man's presence on the Bridge. Müller saw surprise closely followed by suspicion dawn in the green eyes of their CO as he took in the fact that his Armoury Officer was actually _walking_ to his post. But the obvious enquiry had to wait.

"Hold on a second, Malcolm," the Captain said with a long-suffering sigh, turning to Hoshi again. "Would you mind trying a few languages on him, Ensign?" he asked, frustration starting to bubble under his forced politeness. "I'm afraid Porthos is off duty at the moment."

Oblivious to the sarcasm, Hoshi shrugged again, the picture of cheekiness. "All right." With an athletic pike forward rotation, she made to dive back to her console, but found that she couldn't reach it. She remained head down and feet up, awkwardly vertical. There was a clearing of the throat. "Erm, Subcommander… would you mind… you know…?"

T'Pol looked at her impassively for a moment, then reached out with nonchalance and grabbed Hoshi's pony tail, silently pulling the linguist down.

"_Shaya tonat_," Hoshi said with a smile.

There was a very un-Vulcan sigh.

"You're welcome."

Bernhard had managed to remain virtually unnoticed near the lift. Or at least no one had said anything about his presence on the Bridge. As he was beginning to make his laborious way to some more useful position, near Reed, a page came through the comm. link on the Captain's chair.

"Tucker to Archer. Hell, hold on a sec." There was a pause; then the Commander's voice boomed out of all the comm. links. "Tucker to all hands. Attention: grav. plating coming back online in ten, nine, eight, seven…"

"Qui nave Enterprise."

The Commander's countdown was boldly overridden by Hoshi's voice. The linguist was pressing on her earpiece with one hand while holding on to her chair with the other.

"Qui nave Enterprise," she repeated. "Che diavolo sta dicendo? Ich verstehe nichts, et quittez d'aboyer comme un chien, je vous en prie! Es muy molesto!"

"… four, three, two, one…"

And the Indians launched their steeds down the hill hollering their war cry, just as gravity suddenly returned.

"Thank you, Commander," Archer muttered to himself, immediately jumping to his feet. He strode up to Hoshi's console, narrowly sidestepping the Subcommander, who had lithely climbed down from the railing and was coming around it to reach her post.

"Ensign, I seriously doubt that alien would understand any Earth languages."

Hoshi rolled her eyes. "Captain, I'm hardly qualified in canine idioms." She smirked. "All right. Let me try a few Klingon dialects. They do have a barking punch to them."

_Canine idioms… _Müller did a double take. _Porthos? _"Porthos!" he blurted out before he could stop himself. All eyes turned to him, including – he noticed – one of the two overlarge bulges in the alien's face; the other one remained fixed on Hoshi.

"Captain," Bernhard went on a little hesitantly in the silence that had fallen. "The Subcommander told Rostov that Porthos was found talking to the people on the planet…"

"In the ready room," T'Pol confirmed from across the Bridge. All human eyes plus one now turned to her. "Porthos was in front of your monitor, barking to someone from the Tourist Bureau."

"That doesn't necessarily mean anything," Reed spat out. "You can't seriously believe that they were actually _talking_."

T'Pol seemed unimpressed by the sarcasm oozing from the Lieutenant's voice. "Illogical, but not impossible," she said with Vulcan poise.

"Perhaps these people have learnt how to communicate with him," Bernhard suggested.

Heads turned once again starboard. And then port when Hoshi said coquettishly, "Capitaine, il n'y a pas qu'une manière de savoir." She turned one hand palm up. "Only one way to find out…"

And starboard…

"Sir, I strongly recommend we bring our weapons online," Reed said darkly, crossing his hands tightly over his chest. "These people seem angry enough. You never know. Better be on the safe side."

Archer winced. "Shut up, Malcolm. In fact, shut up _everyone_. I'm trying to think." He turned frowningly to T'Pol. "How do you know it was the Tourist Bureau?"

"Because there was a writing that said so in a number of languages, including Vulcan."

There was a collective groan. "Why the hell didn't you say so before?" Archer said, wincing.

"I wasn't ask--" T'Pol started to reply, but the Captain cut her off.

"Never mind. Vulcan logic," he muttered to himself, shaking his head. "Hoshi, now that we now how to communicate with this guy, would you please ask him what all the fuss is about?"

* * *

Hoshi's laughter pealed through the Bridge like pearls cascading from a broken necklace and bouncing off the floor; and it did so just as unexpectedly.

Archer almost took a step back in surprise. "Ensign?"

He looked, Bernhard thought, more bewildered than reproachful.

Hoshi cleared her throat. "They are requiring payment for the programme – uhm – _we_ bought, Sir," she said, having regained a modicum of seriousness. It didn't last: a second later she brought a hand to her mouth and broke into an infectious giggle. Despite their situation, Bernhard felt his own mouth curve up.

"What?" Archer blinked, wincing at his Communication Officer. "We haven't bought any programmes."

"Apparently a small crewmember who spoke a different language from us did; one with a white, brown and black coat and long ears, Captain," Hoshi choked out; then gave in to another fit.

"This is ridiculous!" Reed exploded in his clipped British accent.

Archer shut him up once again with an imperious wave of the hand, his puzzled green eyes never leaving Hoshi. "Are you certain that's what he said?"

"Holy Mount Seleya, Captain," T'Pol said flatly, lifting innocent eyebrows. "I believe I was sufficiently unambiguous when I reported that your canine was found in the ready room, engaged in conversation with someone from the planet's Tourist Bureau."

Archer turned a creased brow on her. "And what they hell were they talking about, then?"

T'Pol sighed patiently, her eyebrows gracefully lifting again. "According to this person, Porthos sent an order for a 'fun-all-around' programme – whatever that is," she said.

Hoshi, who, in the meanwhile, had been speaking with the angry alien, suddenly sobered up and said, a hint of worry now in her voice, "This man seems to think that Porthos promised a credit transfer within 48 hours; they didn't receive anything, and now they are threatening to fire on us if we don't pay."

"Bloody hell!" Reed burst out. "Permission to--"

"Granted!" Archer cut him off, his focus back on the alien, who had started speaking again, gesturing wildly with his long arms.

"Moreover, since no credit has been transferred…" Hoshi translated, "as of this moment… the programme is…"

"Cancelled," T'Pol finished for her.

The image disappeared abruptly from the view-screen just as a sudden whining sound invaded the Bridge. Müller felt a tingling sensation on his skin, which made his hair rise. Looking around, he saw his fellow crewmen freeze, as if time had stopped for them.

Uh-oh. A knot began to form in his gut. "Sir?" he said, not sure himself which superior officer he was addressing. Not that it mattered, for he got no answer. Biting his lip he put a hand on Lieutenant Reed's shoulder and shook him gently. The man was as rigid as stockfish.

"Kreuz, Birnbaum und Hollerstauden!" he burst out. Could things get any worse?

A hard blow rocked the ship.

They could.

TBC


	9. Chapter 9

§ 9 §

"Rostov to the Bridge."

Mike's voice was audibly panicked. By the sound of it things in Engineering weren't any better than on the Bridge. Bernhard pushed the seat with Reed unceremoniously aside and pressed the comm. link open.

"We're under attack," Bernhard said without preamble while his eyes tried to keep up with two small but more-than-adequately armed ships that were crisscrossing on the view-screen. They almost seemed a bizarre back-up to the band of belligerent Indian warriors on the smaller monitor underneath. The distracting thought made him shake his head. He added tautly, "We'll have to break orbit. Bring engines online and come to the Bridge at once."

"Are the others--?"

"On the double, Crewman!"

Another blow hit Enterprise, sending Bernhard groping for support. Time to take an example from the people on that stage coach and do some shooting back. He might not want to do any real damage to their attackers, if it was true that Porthos had not paid his bill, but neither was he going to stand idle while they tried to blow them out of the sky.

Bernhard shut everything out, even the yelling Indians, and focused solely on the tactical console, letting his hands fly over the commands, bringing all weapons online. Thank God that before falling into his hypnotic state Lieutenant Reed had at least polarized the hull plating, though it was already down to 80.

The turbo lift opened, and an out-of-breath Rostov propelled himself out of it.

"Incoming! Hold on!" Bernhard cried out, albeit a moment too late.

Under the force of the blow, Mike ended up half-draped over the science console. The other half was on their Science Officer. "Sorry," he muttered uneasily to an oblivious T'Pol. With a groan, he pushed off, and scanned the Bridge and its statuesque staff with worried eyes.

"Just as ready for action as the rest of the crew," he muttered in dismay.

Admittedly their frozen crewmates were a disquieting sight, especially Archer, standing like a pole in front of Hoshi's console.

"How good are you at piloting?" Bernhard asked outright.

"_What_? You've got to be kidding!" was the startled reply. "_Sir_."

Sparing a glance in his direction Bernhard saw that the engineer looked to be wondering if he was still in his right mind. They could not, however, afford to waste time arguing; there were other more important issues at hand. Focusing back on his task, Bernhard managed to get a good lock and hit the hull of one of the attacking ships, which immediately responded. The Bridge shook once again.

"I mean it, Mike," he pressed, appealing to the bond of friendship that had been formed between them in the past couple of days. Right now rank, he decided, would only be in the way. Smoke was spewing out of the diagnostic monitors behind him, and as he grabbed a fire extinguished he repeated, more urgently, "How good are you at piloting?"

Rostov gave a nervous giggle. "Piloting what? I can ride a bike," he blurted out. "Look," he immediately added in an oddly shrill voice, "Technically I can fly a pod, but to say that I haven't done much piloting since my training days is an understatement. And Enterprise is not exactly--"

More firing rocked them, cutting Mike's tense words.

"It's either weapons or the helm: I'll give you a choice, but choose fast!"

Bernhard heard a breathless 'Oh, boy' and saw Rostov stumble forward. He could tell that he fumbled for a moment with Mayweather's sleeves, which were still tying the man to his chair; then, with a grunt, their helmsman was heaved off the seat and deposited on the floor.

"Here we go," Mike said after a moment, in a quivering voice. "I hope you're not expecting me to fly it _straight and steady_."

"Any which way will do, as long as you get us out of here!"

"Navigation… thrusters… dampeners… Any idea where first gear is?"

Bernhard bit his lip. "Hull plating is down to 50."

"No pressure, right?" Mike croaked out. "Fine." He suddenly sounded determined. "Breaking orbit. One quarter impulse."

The big ship began to pull away from the planet. It felt good to be moving and see the round sphere that had monopolized the view out of virtually every porthole gradually grow further and migrate to a corner of the view-screen. Not that Bernhard could exactly enjoy the scene.

"Can't you push on the gas pedal a little?" he urged, eager to try and put some distance between Enterprise and their attackers.

"Sure, no sweat," Mike said, tension entering his voice again.

"And possibly not offer so easy a target?"

"Fast and dodging. Aye, aye, Sir."

There was a dose of 'do or die' audacity in the words, which made Bernhard briefly raise his eyes from his console. Mike was sitting rigidly in Mayweather's chair, eyes locked on the commands, face sickly pale.

Enterprise tilted hard to port.

"Ahhhh… _Judiciously_ fast and dodging!" Bernhard cried out, beginning to regret his instructions. He watched Archer sway a couple of times and finally topple over the railing. A moment later the Captain had fallen like a cut tree to the ground.

A moan of despair commented the fact. "What's the punishment for sending your C.O. to sickbay?" Mike whined.

But they were definitely gaining momentum and Bernhard was quite relieved to see that. "Great, keep it up," he encouraged, following his own train of thought.

"You want me to send more people to sickbay?"

A trumpet sounded. The US cavalry was on the way. The stagecoach, which had looked doomed, was suddenly abandoned and the Indians galloped off.

"Would be nice if the cavalry could send our attackers packing too," Mike commented in that edgy, high-pitched voice.

"Keep your eyes on the road, will you?"

Bernhard pressed the 'fire' button, sending a few low-yield shots in the direction of one of the ships – if the cavalry wasn't available, he'd have to do. He darted a wry look at Commander Tucker's movie screen, but a sudden tilt to starboard brought his mind and eyes back onto other things. The ship had angled quite steeply, and a thud to his right told him that Lieutenant Reed had joined Archer and Mayweather on the floor. Without a moment's thought he grabbed the vacated chair and gratefully plunked himself down on it. Better.

Mike gave a hysterical giggle. "And you thought Mayweather's piloting was manic."

Blurting out silly things was obviously Rostov's way of coping with tension, so Bernhard let him, even though he could have done without the distraction. Speaking of which…

"I wish I had had a chance to put this screen out of commission too," he muttered, darting another, this time poisonous, look at the object in question: the blue-jackets were now in pursuit of the Indians; the trumpet was still blaring, sounding the charge, and the Indians were still yelling. "Where the hell is the volume to that thing?" he asked irritably.

"Don't know," Rostov replied. "But this, on the other hand, should be…" He paused for a moment; then suddenly announced, "Engaging the warp drive."

"Hold on, just hold on!" Bernhard felt his mouth go dry. "I never said you should try to fly Enterprise at warp speed!"

A particularly hard blow hit them astern, and T'Pol went down, like a ripe fruit.

"I think it's time I did." Rostov stretched his neck. "Aren't we supposed to _go boldly_?"

Swallowing hard, Bernhard lowered his eyes to the automatic damage reports, which kept coming in and were beginning to look a bit too grim. Perhaps it _was_ time to dare. "Feel you can handle it?" he asked warily.

"Piece of cake," Rostov replied, in a good enough impersonation of Commander Tucker that made them both break in a tense smile.

Bernhard heaved a steadying breath. "All right, then. Warp one," he ordered. "And try to keep us in one piece," he begged.

Mike's eyes sparkled for a worrisome moment. Perhaps the startled crewman of a few moments before had been preferable; the one who had looked unwilling even to _sit_ at helm. But then a concentrated mask fell on Rostov's face, and he turned to the console. His hands reached the levers, and to his credit they weren't even trembling. He let them rest there for a moment; then pulled slowly up. They heard a familiar low rumble, and in a flash they had left their troubles behind.

There was a moment of suspended silence; but before they could even release the breath they'd been holding, muffled groans and a distinct 'bloody hell' alerted them to their fellow crew members' re-awakening.

Bernhard looked to his right, where Lieutenant Reed was blinking and trying to pick himself up to a sitting position. Some indistinct muttering was coming from somewhere in front of the tactical station: it was Mayweather, who was looking down at his state of half-undress with a puzzled expression on his face.

Raising his eyes from him to the helm, Bernhard caught Mike casting him a terrified glance, and wondered if it was caused by the fact that the engineer was actually piloting a starship zapping at warp speed, or by the idea that the senior staff would find him in a position for which he was hardly qualified.

"What – uhm – happened?"

The hoarse question got him to refocus beyond Rostov. Archer had grabbed the railing in front of the science and communication stations and was pulling himself up. When he finally reached standing he hissed in pain and brought a hand round his right shoulder, a grimace contorting his face.

Mike shot Bernhard another horrified glare.

"We were attacked at the entrance of the canyon," a gruff, heavily accented voice said, as if on cue.

All eyes turned to the man on the screen, who had taken off his grimy Stetson and was wiping an even grimier sleeve on his sweaty brow.

"Lucky you were patrollin' the area, Capt'n," the man added.

No one on the Bridge contradicted him. They all watched in silence as another Captain, on a different means of transport filled the screen.

"You should know better than go through this region without an escort these days," the handsome officer reproached, oblivious of his extended audience. He dismounted his horse and approached the coach, bending down. "Looks like you nearly broke a wheel hub. Going damn fast, weren't you?"

"Erm, Mister Mayweather," Rostov suddenly said in a thin voice. "If you are feeling up to it, I wouldn't mind letting you take over, before I too break a… uhm, something."

"Rostov?" Archer turned abruptly to the helm, suddenly aware of who was sitting where. "What on earth…?" He slowly scanned the Bridge, taking stock of the rest of his crew. The round tour ended on T'Pol and his gaze lingered a long moment on her. "Why are you wearing pajamas on the Bridge, Subcommander?" he croaked out, wincing.

There was a pause.

"I am unable to provide an answer to your question at the moment," T'Pol virtually mumbled. After quietly climbing back onto her chair, she was now sitting there hugging her elbows, perhaps in an effort to conceal her exposed midsection. She looked and sounded, for once, completely befuddled and also a bit self-conscious.

"Captain, I think I may be able to explain a few things," Bernhard finally found the courage to say.

Archer lifted his eyebrows. "That's… good," he commented bluntly. "At least someone here seems to know what's going on."

Bernhard stood up and pushed his chair politely towards Lieutenant Reed, who stumbled to it and dropped to sit down. "Ah - happy 21st of October, Sir," he murmured to the man, with a small smile. Reed replied an absent-minded 'thank you' while his grey eyes studied him warily.

Mayweather, who had slipped into his sleeves and zipped up his uniform, glanced rather nervously at the helm's controls as he relieved a very relieved Rostov.

"We're all ears, Ensign," Archer prompted.

Just then the turbo lift opened and Commander Tucker emerged from it.

"Who the hell has scattered the ship with broken monitors?" he asked with a hint of irritation. His eyes locked onto the one under the view-screen. "I'll be damned," he said, mouth curving into an instant smile. "Isn't that a vintage John Wayne movie?"

TBC


	10. Chapter 10

§ 10 §

"Hmm!"

Bernhard closed his eyes briefly and sniffed the air; then, with enthusiasm, he speared a piece of chicken marsala and popped it into his mouth. It was a relief that, once they had got far enough from that planet, not only had the crew re-awakened, but things had gone back to normal, including Chef's cooking.

"Delicious," he mumbled around his morsel.

It was the day after, so to speak: after the madness but also after the best sleep of his life. The moment he had touched his mattress he'd been gone to the world for nine straight hours. Captain Archer had given him and Rostov the morning free. Bernhard had lingered in bed, thankful to know the ship was in good hands – others' hands. He had taken his time showering and getting dressed; then had written a few long-overdue letters home, before going looking for Rostov, to have lunch with him. It had only seemed natural to seek the engineer's company.

"So, how many days in the brig was Porthos given?" Mike joked across the table from him.

Bernhard's green eyes twinkled as he noticed how much more relaxed his friend looked this morning. "Actually, between me and you, I think the Captain should feel somewhat responsible for what happened," he said, spearing a piece of potato. "After all, he was the one who left the screen in the ready room open on the page with the planet's recreational programmes. Porthos only stepped on the keyboard while trying to reach the leftovers from a sandwich that had been abandoned on the desk - guess by whom - thus inadvertently ordering the 'fun-all-around programme'."

As he cut his sausage in obsessively regular slices Mike bit his lip pensively. "The thing I don't understand," he said after a moment, "is the part where Porthos was _talking_ to the man of the Tourist Bureau."

Bernhard lowered his fork. "That's a bit of a mystery, actually," he said. "When the Bureau called to have confirmation of the means of payment, Ensign Sato hardly remembers taking the call; she was too busy listening to her music and automatically put it through to the ready room, without even checking if the Captain was there. And then Subcommander T'Pol was too eager to finish her Sherlock Holmes to investigate why Porthos was barking to the man on the Captain's screen. Somehow the guy thought the beagle was going to arrange a credit transfer. Either he learnt how to speak _Beagle_, or some dialect or language, on that planet, uses sounds that resemble a dog's barking."

Mike tilted his head as he squirted a big blob of ketchup on his plate. "Ensign Sato ought to find out. Imagine being able to talk to Porthos!"

"Uhm – I'm not sure we want to know what Porthos has to say about this _pack_."

"Especially about the member who sabotaged the grav plating," Mike agreed with a grin. It fell as he enquired, "So… this 'fun-all-around programme' was what, exactly?"

"From what Subcommader T'Pol has learnt it seems to be a big hit, the latest in amusement, in this region of space. And ships, apparently, are becoming regular users, as an alternative to shore leaves. It's one, single wave-burst that lowers one's inhibition threshold so that everyone feels totally free to pursue their own idea of 'fun'. There are different degrees of intensity. A bit of a wild thing, if you ask me."

"A wave-burst?" Mike grimaced. "Sounds dangerous." Lowering his voice, he added, "Are we sure they're all back to normal?"

Bernhard shrugged, dismissing his friend's concern. "Doctor Phlox ran brain scans, and found nothing worrisome."

"You must help me, Ensign," an urgent and accented voice butted in. "The crew is in danger. We don't want them to have to splash around in a swimming-pool, do we?"

Müller almost choked on his morsel. He started coughing and Rostov had to pat his back.

"Now, that's real evil of ya, Loo-tenant," another voice commented deadpan.

Bernhard and Mike turned to see their Chiefs standing a few steps away, trays in hand, smiles on their faces.

"Easy, Bernhard," Reed said with a contrite glance. "I'm only pulling your leg."

"Uh – how nice of you, Sir," Bernhard croaked out as he tried to get his voice back.

"Look what you've done to the man," Tucker chuckled. Raising his chin to the empty seats around the table, he asked, "Are those taken?"

"No, Sir. Please."

"Commander, Lieutenant," Rostov acknowledged, with a nod. Bernhard exchanged a fleeting look with him, and they both automatically straightened their shoulders.

"At ease, you two," Tucker said with another one of his charming smiles as he and Reed sat down. They spread their napkins on their laps and, ignoring their tablemates, began talking to each other.

"So you say those fireworks of yours were tampered with?" Tucker drawled.

"Most definitely," Reed replied. "Can't think who might have done it," he added darkly, rolling spaghetti on his fork in a seemingly endless twirl as his mind was obviously on something else.

"Well, seein' as they were going to be used to celebrate Nelson's victory at Trafalgar…" Tucker waved a fork at Reed. "Don't you have a Frenchman in your team?"

The Lieutenant's head jerked abruptly up, and his eyes narrowed in thought. "Crewman Dufour…" he spat out as if sudden awareness had dawned in his brain. "Bloody hell, I should've thought of that!"

Tucker went on, "Anyway, I don't really care about your missed _explosions_, but I definitely think you oughtta try and find out who put all those monitors out of commission. Deliberately damaging Starfleet property is a punishable crime."

Bernhard tensed.

Reed snorted sarcastically as he finally lifted a forkful of pasta. "It was probably someone whose idea of fun wasn't being forcefully subjected to watch a treacly musical, water polo lessons, or the cavalry chasing Indians," he spat out, fork hovering. "As far as I'm concerned, whoever it was deserves a medal. Saved the crew from irreparable brain damage."

Bernhard expected a knowing look, but none came. Reed simply shoved the pasta in his mouth and ignored him.

Tucker groaned.

"But I suppose you're right," the Lieutenant unexpectedly mumbled on. He swallowed his morsel. "Despite some pretty strong extenuating circumstances, damaging monitors is still a punishable crime."

Mike's eyes widened as he mouthed, "Can't he remember?"

Bernhard had suddenly lost his appetite. He put down his own fork just as Reed, raising his glass, met his eyes. A frown or worry creased the Armoury Officer's brow.

"Are you all right, Ensign? You look awfully pale."

"Uh? Yes, Sir, just not all that hungry…"

"Must be the tension of the last few hours."

"Oh, and the Capt'n wants you to find out who the hell sabotaged the grav. platin'," Tucker went on as if oblivious of the exchange.

"Well, how on earth am I supposed to do that?" Reed complained. "It happened when I wasn't myself, remember?" He sighed; then leaned back in his chair and turned unreadable grey eyes on Bernhard. "Ensign, have you any idea who it could have been?"

Bernhard's eyebrows went up while his jaw dropped open, his face frozen for a long moment in – he was sure – an idiotic expression. _Yes, Sir, a very good idea. _"Someone… whose idea of fun wasn't playing water polo, Sir?" he sputtered.

"Indeed!" Reed rolled his eyes. "By the way, have you seen the Captain recently?" he went on to ask the Commander. "He seems to have disappeared. Maybe he's busy secretly filling that extra-large bathtub you built for him."

"Hey!" Tucker exclaimed in mock outrage. Then with a chuckle he drawled, "I wouldn't discount that. Though he's more likely busy pacifyin' the people from that planet, and arrangin' for a credit transfer." He gulped down a generous sip of coffee. "I met him briefly this morning. He mentioned something about wanting to see you two guys," he added to Bernhard and Mike. "Wasn't in the best of moods, either. The ship's a mess, inside and out."

Bernhard felt a knot harden in his stomach, right on top of the recently-deposited chicken marsala. Not that he expected a medal for what he and Rostov had done, but he had hoped he could avoid a reprimand in his file, considering the circumstances… All right, perhaps shooting back on those ships hadn't been the most diplomatic thing to do; but he was an armoury man, for heaven's sake, not a linguist or a diplomat!

Mike shot his Chief a worried look. "Did he say what he wanted to see us for, Commander?" he asked in a thin voice. But Tucker didn't have a chance to reply.

"Good day, everyone," a gleeful voice cut him off. Doctor Phlox reached with a chubby hand into Bernhard's plate and, snatching a French fry, dipped it in the ketchup before popping it shamelessly into his mouth. "Hmm," he mumbled. He grabbed a piece of chicken and regarded it for a moment. "I see Chef is back to normal, too." His gaze travelled around the table and stopped on Rostov. "Mister Rostov! I just met Crewman Santos. She had rather… uncomplimentary words to say about you." He chuckled. "What did you do to her, hmmm?"

Mike instantly flushed a deep red. "I… well…" he stammered.

"Something about 'not expecting you to be so uncouth', whatever she meant."

Mike's eyes narrowed. "Wait a moment. How can she remember?" he enquired suspiciously, glancing at Reed and Tucker. "I'm getting the feeling people don't exactly remember what they did – or, erm – was done to them in the last couple of days."

Tucker grinned. "What, exactly, should she _not_ remember?"

Rostov's blush intensified.

"That's evil of you, Commander," Reed said, echoing the Chief Engineer's words from before. "Look what you've done to the poor man!"

Chuckling, Phlox went to fetch a chair over from another table and bought it over, sitting down. "To answer your question, Mister Rostov, people do remember what happened; all they did and said. It just took a while, after the program shut down, for those memories to return." He turned to Reed. "By the way, Lieutenant, Crewman Roanhorse has asked me if I can try and convince the Captain to continue my recreating programme." The words wiped a silly grin off Reed's face. "She still intends to have that rendezvous that…"

Bernhard shut the rest out. His mind was wrapping itself around the previous sentence as if to protect it lest it might get lost in the confusion of his jumbled thoughts. He sought Rostov's eyes, and silent communication passed between them. They were being had. No good. He refocused on his Chief, who was busy fending off Phlox's proposition.

"….worse than doing time in the brig, Doctor," Reed spat out.

"Pardon me, Lieutenant," Bernhard asked innocently, "But… talking of doing time in the brig: how much time in the brig would the person who sabotaged the gravity plating deserve, in your opinion?"

Reed's mouth twitched imperceptibly. "I'd say more or less as much as the person who blackened all those monitors."

Steel blue eyes held reproving green ones.

"Although something tells me that he probably just obeyed orders," Reed added at length. He tilted his head and his mouth curved in a lopsided smirk.

Bernhard kept his features perfectly straight. "With all due respect, Sir, that _was_ evil of you."

Reed broke into a chuckle. "Right, it was. I'm sorry, Bernhard. A little revenge for what you did to my fireworks."

"You… you knew it was me who defused your fireworks?" Bernhard stammered.

Crossing his arms over his chest, Reed sighed. "Of course, Ensign. Who else would have been so conscientious on this ship of madmen?" He turned to Tucker. "The two of them are ok but can still learn a few tricks, wouldn't you say?"

"Absolutely," Tucker agreed, laughing. He landed a fake blow on Rostov's shoulder. "Relax, Mike. They're not throwing Müller and you in the brig. Just yet."

Rostov deflated like a punctured tire, sagging in his chair. "At least we didn't follow any alien _females_ down any cellar," he muttered.

Bernhard watched the Commander and Lieutenant shoot Rostov incinerating looks. "What's this fixation of yours with alien females and cellars?" he asked his friend, perplexed.

"Fixation?" Reed and Tucker echoed. They sounded threatening.

This was definitely something worth investigating, Bernhard mused.

"Fixation?" Rostov repeated innocently. "No fixation. Absolutely none."

"Ah, Subcommander!" Phlox called, waving an arm.

They all turned to see their Second Officer enter the Mess Hall. She was back in her Vulcan uniform, and stopped a brief moment glancing at the group; then unhurriedly joined them. "Is there anything you need, Doctor?" she asked.

Phlox grinned. "I wanted to ask you how you liked _The Hound of the Baskervilles_. I'm interested in the character of Doctor Watson."

"It was… interesting," she curtly replied.

Tucker got up and with Southern charm offered her his seat. "Why don't you join us?"

T'Pol nodded gracefully and complied, sitting poised on the edge of her seat.

"I didn't know you were fond of Arthur Conan Doyle," Reed said in surprise.

"I am not, Lieutenant. I simply heard you mention Sherlock Holmes's logic to Commander Tucker once, and wished to ascertain if it was as impressive as you appeared to think."

"And?" Reed asked with a challenging look.

"His deductions are irreprehensible. However, I find his character, on occasion, distractingly impulsive."

There was a chorus of groans, which made both T'Pol's eyebrows lift.

"Well, impulsive or not, I could have used him on board yesterday," Bernhard blurted out.

Hoshi suddenly appeared from behind Commander Tucker, holding a cup of ice-cream. She stuck the spoon in her mouth and held it as she would a pipe. "It was Porthos. Elementary, my dear Müller," she said in a British accent.

"The Hound of the Starship Enterprise," Rostov added.

"He'll go without cheese for a month, just in case you are all wondering about his punishment," Captain Archer commented as he moved in beside Sato. "As you were."

"Oh, poor Porthos!" the linguist frowned. "After all, he didn't know what he was doing."

"All right; then I'll go without cheese for a month," Archer said with a chuckle as he took in the group. "What's this, a birthday party?"

"Yeah," Tucker drawled. "Celebrating the re-birth of the crew to sanity."

The Captain gave him one of his tight-lipped, wry smiles. Looking around the table, his gaze fell on Bernhard. "Ah, Müller; I was looking for you," he said.

Bernhard straightened his shoulders. "Sir?"

"I understand that in the space of – what – 36 hours you put twelve monitors out of order, tampered with Lieutenant Reed's _fun project_, argued with Chef, sent a bunch of people to sickbay for no reason, locked another bunch in quarters, failed to prevent the grav. plating from being sabotaged, and last but not least engaged in a fire-fight with two ships while letting Mister Rostov pilot Enterprise at warp speed. Is that right?"

Bernhard swallowed hard. "That's correct, Captain," he croaked out, managing to hold his C.O.'s gaze. _Ouch_. Al Capone sounded like a saint in comparison.

There was a beat of heavy silence.

Archer nodded gravely. "In the face of all that, Ensign, all I can say is…" He reached and patted a hand on Müller's shoulder. "Well done."

"Sir?"

"You handled the situation with admirable judgement and ingenuity. On Mister Reed's suggestion I'm putting a commendation on your file," Archer said with a wide grin.

"Good job, Ensign," Reed congratulated him. "Your primary concern was for the ship's and crew's safety, so I suppose Lord Nelson and I will forgive you for spoiling our celebrations."

Bernhard looked from one to the other speechlessly for a moment. "Thank you, Sirs," he finally found the voice to say. "But I couldn't have done much without Crewman Rostov's help. It was really teamwork." He sought Mike's eyes and saw them twinkle.

Archer broke into one of his fatherly smiles. "That's what I like about this crew," he said without bothering to hide his pride. "They can count on each other."

"I really didn't do much," Rostov mumbled, shrugging lightly. "Except for some daredevil piloting, of course."

"Crewman Santos seems to have a different opinion about that," Commander Tucker naughtily suggested. In the general laugh, he added, "I hope you're not thinkin' of givin' Rostov yellow pipin' now, Capt'n. I still need him in Engineering."

Archer looked to be thinking for a moment; then turned to the man in question. "Well, your coolness in steering us away from danger was commendable, Mister Rostov, and we're all grateful for what you did; but I'm quite fond of Travis's more _conventional_ handling of the helm – you know, we don't want to give the Doctor too much work."

Travis's handling of the helm, in that pod, had been less than conventional, but Rostov didn't have the courage to say so. Wincing, he stuttered, "Sir, I'm sorry about… you know… How is your shoulder?"

"Nothing Phlox's creatures couldn't fix." Archer landed a good-humoured pat on Rostov's back.

"Have you settled things with the planet's Tourist Bureau, Captain?" Reed enquired.

"I have, yes. They agreed to cancel our debit in exchange for our music database. They are going to set up 'listening rooms' for eccentric music lovers."

Reed jerked his head sideways, looking impressed. "Nice idea. Good diplomacy, Sir."

"Actually, we should thank Ensign Sato for this."

"Me, Sir?" Hoshi asked in surprise.

"When Porthos sent his order and the Tourist Bureau called Enterprise, you placed them on hold for a moment as you paged the call through to my ready room. It was only for a few seconds, but they were instantly fascinated by the music you put on as they were made to wait." Archer's brow creased in amusement. "What was it, Hoshi, do you remember?"

Hoshi cleared her throat. "Ah, could've been anything from Andorian ice rock, to Klingon Dance punk or plain Earth Bubblegum pop, Sir."

Archer's mouth opened, but no words came. After a moment his eyebrows made a quick dance and he just uttered, "Oh."

"I believe I can satisfy your curiosity, Captain," T'Pol said. "It was a Consort with a memorable name. I was trying to read my book and Ensign Sato's humming was quite distracting; when I asked her if she could refrain she replied that it was impossible to listen to the _Tacky Throats_ without humming along."

"The _Tacky Throats_?" Reed blurted out.

Hoshi's eyes lit up. "You like them too?"

Reed just shot her an eloquent look.

"Well," Bernhard said, passing a hand through his hair. "I'm sure glad I'm back to taking orders instead of giving them."

Archer raised his eyebrows. "I'm sure you are." Clasping a hand to Tucker's shoulder he announced, "You'll be glad to know we are on course for a planet that according to the Vulcan database is nothing short of a paradise." He turned to Müller, eyes twinkling. "I was thinking of letting you and Crewman Rostov have a day off on it, as an extra reward for this couple of days. They really spoilt your shore leave."

Bernhard turned to Mike. The man looked as panicked as he felt.

"How about a double shift, instead, Sir? I think we've had all the _fun _thatwe can handle…"

THE END


End file.
